Room On Fire
by flesh and bone telephone
Summary: "All creatures should be romantics, what a tragedy it is that no one cares for such things anymore." — AU. Socialite, Catherine the Great's St. Petersburg, a married woman and the beginnings of an illustrious affair. UPDATED!
1. Ribbon cutting ceremony

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_"I measured love by the extent of my jealousy."  
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><p>Room on Fire, as promised, is now officially off hiatus! Read on for the first chapter.<p>

Those looking for the old chapters may look up my tumblr, it's pinned there for everyone to see on my ffnet profile page!

So let's get on with this, because I'm literally falling asleep on my laptop keys and I have a class tomorrow and what is my life. You probably don't wanna hear about it. i don't blame you. I can be terribly mundane.

THEREFORE, START, RIGHT NOW. READING, I MEAN.

KLAUS APPEARS. SO YOU KNOW IT'S WORTH IT.

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><p>—<p>

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_"I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue;  
>one can't love and do nothing"<em><br>__

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	2. The Bad Thing, The Arctic Monkeys

**disclaimer:** i do not own tvd, i do not own a lot of things that i think i should be entitled to. like russia.  
><strong>dedication:<strong> to everyone who ever reviewed, i'd lost my mojo for writing this story after enforcing a hiatus. it was the heapload of reviews that kept coming in inspite of the lack of updates, all just encouraging me and saying nice things that really got me out of my funk. so thank you, guys, you've been fantastic for sticking with me this long! everyone everyone _everyone_ has been so bloody fantastic it's rather unbelievable, i'm still digesting the fact that so many of you even bother with this fic, let alone with me and my ways. so thank you, THANK YOU.  
><strong>warning:<strong> a lot of scenes you didn't see in the old stuff, a completely new perspective to everything.  
><strong>notes:<strong> this story is largely inspired by socialite romances experienced in 17th century eastern europe (mostly russia), inspired by movies such as 'onegin', 'anna karenina' and 'the end of the affair' as well as 'marie antoinette' because i am a whore for history.  
><strong>even moar notes:<strong> i finally wrote you some klaus, it's kind of belated. i also added more voices to the story, it's nice to hear from caroline's perspective, but in this edition i decided to put in a lot of pov's from all your favorites. it tells the story in a broader, more colorful way, don't you think.

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><p>.<p>

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><em>Oh, the night's like a whirlwind. Somebody's girlfriend's talkin' to me, "but its alright," She's sayin'<br>that he's not gonna slap me or try to attack me. He's not the jealous type.__  
>Oh, I'm stood at the bar and somebody's partner's talkin' to me, but I don't know that is what she isn't.<br>She murmurs things to confirm that the tragedy is true, and I knew how could she not, she could have anyone she wants  
>and I'm strugglin' to think of an immediate response, like,<br>"I don't mind. Be a big mistake for you to wait, and let me waste your time  
>Really love it's fine," Said,"really love it's fine"<em>

_.  
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><p>The wax was ready to pour, she dabbed her scent on the paper she'd bought from one of the shops near the Neva. Soon that very river would freeze through and perhaps their homes would be within walking distance once more. Rebekah scowled, prodding her cursive writing, the swirls on her letters that her brothers always called girlish.<p>

She folded her letter abruptly, she was not a silly little girl to dwell on things past. It was time to move on to newer things. He wasn't the last man in the city, there were others fairer and higher than him. If she wanted she could grab herself an Imperial Guard, if she wanted of course.

She didn't need to want him to still think him _hers._

The wax was silver as the crucifixes she liked to wear, serpentine as the glint of an adder's scales. Elijah said it tiredly all the time that her letters were full of venom underneath all that sweetness, anyway. Their house arms were older than most, a wolf's head in side profile, snout born up for a scent of blood.

"It's a barbaric little thing," she sniped, but Nik kept his more alarming silences by the fire. Arms slung over the side of the red wine lounge seat and its straight back made him a beast lounging on a chair made for civilized people. She'd told him to take off his boots at the very least, but he hadn't, and she hadn't pursued the topic further in fear of the explosion he was no doubt building up to.

He was in a sour mood tonight, and not even her barbs could draw him out of his thoughts.

Rain pelted on the glass window, hurled itself like stones, melting into the silences of what they did not say.

Henrik died today, she did not say. And you are to blame.

It was an uncharitable thing to think, and her cheeks flushed with shame. How different was such a thought from the ones father and mother had so loved to think of Niklaus? Not different at all. She loved him more than they ever did, and she knew him. She knew he blamed himself far more than her parents ever could.

"Nik," she tried, "Nik, let's go skating, soon?"

The wax cooled, sealed the envelope shut. She looked searchingly for the top of his head, the frosty light of the afternoon making clouds of gray everywhere it touched, creating an artificial light like a thin film of gray like snow or dust. It made him look awfully unapproachable, forbidding.

Rebekah scrunched her nose, and stood, shoving her skirts from her feet and huffing. "I shan't have you brooding, it's not very becoming."

When Klaus spoke his tone was oddly distant, a nostalgic sort that made her feel inadequate, unable to soothe the things that plagued and tore at him. "Come here, 'Bekah."

She rolled her eyes, shifted forward toward him -

"With the letter, darling."

Rebekah's eyes darted at him, but his back was still to her. "Nik -"

"I don't very much like repeating myself," He growled low in the way that always made dread settle around her shoulders like leaden arms.

She swallowed, throat dry. Pulled back her shoulders and snatched the letter off the table, walking as proud as their father had when he'd been alive even as she panicked. She came by his seat, the smell of rain and earth and frost clung to him like a shroud, she did not like it when he was like this.

She looked down, orange firelight catching the burnished buttons on the cuff of his sleeve. His legs sprawled out, lounging like a cat, he stared dead into the fire, jaw working. He opened his palm and she hesitated a moment before dropping the letter into it.

"You're being silly," he said, "It isn't like you."

She thought for a moment he might open it, that he'd see her words and sneer as coldly as he would at Elijah when he'd chance to say something particularly worldly and _boring._ Rebekah wasn't Elijah, she was Nik's precious sister, the coddled one, he'd bought her her very own horse when she was five.

"It's for Katerina," she lied.

He scowled at the mention of her name, a lift of his lips to bare white teeth. Fingers of fire drew over his face, made him terrifying to behold, she'd be terrified if he wasn't her brother. He didn't contest the fib, didn't even bother. He crumpled the letter in his fist, it made a noise that sounded as loud as crackling flames in her ears, he squeezed hard, like he was throttling the very words out of the mere slip of paper.

When he tossed it into the fire, it hissed, the alcohol of her perfume catching fire like gunpowder.

"He isn't yours anymore," Nik said quietly, a whisper below the hiss of the fire, it hit just as stealthily, just as lethally hit her in the secret chambers of her heart. "I won't have you made a fool of."

She took a breath, inhaling sharply, gearing for a retaliation of her own. "You sound like father."

Rebekah might as well have struck him. If she were a man he might have struck her for her folly, if she were Kol or Elijah, or stupid Finn. The tendons in his jaw stood out, his rage palpable beneath his skin, she thought it cackled off him, and that if she stayed any longer the hem of her dress might catch fire. He had nothing to say to that.

Rebekah's eyes stang, but she turned her back quickly on him. She wouldn't let anyone see, not even Nik. When she stood at the door, to escape the coldness of his company she tossed him an angry little explanation of her own. "You cannot control me."

Klaus said nothing to that.

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><p>He held his cap under his arm, a dewy frost crushed under his padded fingers when he briefly pushed his hair back, trying to mat it down against the humid air inside the aging country cathedral. Elijah knew the groom well enough, and it was he that had brought Elijah all the way West of the capital. <em>You're such a civil little fool,<em> Niklaus's words came back to him, the fresh memory of his callous sneer resurfacing.

It was his brother's indifference that had singularly forced Elijah to make the trip to be here at all. _Go if you will,_ pacing his office like a caged animal. _If you're so goddamned insistent on having our family represented there. Don't expect me._

Elijah had frowned disapprovingly, they both knew that the Lockwood boy expected _Niklaus_ to be the one to attend, had hoped it to be so. Klaus had stormed away to see something off in the barracks before he could see the ire flashing in his elder brother's eyes. Lockwood was a noble, just as they were, not of equal rank (of course), but that could soon change. It would not be kind for Elijah to ignore the invitation just because his brother was being an impudent beast.

He attended on Niklaus's behalf, made this long haul trip across the country to stand in the ewes of a dusty peasant church, to save face for his brother and for their family. He sucked in cold air, steeling himself for the doldrum activities. He had made some solemn excuse about Niklaus being borne down with regiment matters, that Niklaus was deeply sorry that he could not attend.

Niklaus was never sorry about anything, of course. It hadn't always been that way. So callous, approaching cruel really, it hadn't. These days Elijah feared the worst for those suffering his younger brother's company.

But then again, Elijah hadn't survived the years without scars of his own.

Marriage had brought him here, and he found himself revisiting the memory of his own rushed nuptials. It had seemed so wonderful _then_ too, so new, an adventure of which there was no possible failure. They all used to be fools, the men in his family, and they resented foolishness heavily now.

The Lockwood boy had only been mildly disappointed, it was his wedding day after all. Though he admired Niklaus as any soldier would their superior officer, it was still an even greater honor to have the true head and the face of the Mikaelson family attend them instead. Elijah was the eldest of those who remained and thus was of a standing not to be sniffed at.

Tyler seemed too distracted by the beauty of his bride to question the dishonesty of the apology that Niklaus most obviously did not send.

Weddings fairly disheartened Elijah, he had thought that he would be indifferent to them by now. But he still noticed everything, he still felt it all acutely as if it were his own ceremony, as if it were his own follies being relived before his eyes for the bride was a beauty, and Katerina had been beautiful as well. Elijah had married _her, _and realized now that beauty could be as blinding as it was deceitful. Their marriage was a continued issue of compromise and perseverance. Love could go stale.

Swan white skirts spread in a fluttering train around Caroline Forbes. Her hair was yellow, held up high by an accompaniment of jeweled pins. She was a vision, Elijah conceded wearily. _New blood, new money_, he'd heard Rebekah scoffing at him, when trying to dissuade him from attending the wedding all together. _Below us in rank, and country fools. Tyler always did like his girls empty-headed._

Kol had then said something interesting enough about what he perceived to be Rebekah's own state of mind, considering her own history with the Lockwood boy but Elijah had boarded the carriage leaving their home promptly enough to avoid their loud squabbling.

New blood? Not completely true, for the Forbes family was old, descended from the Boyars and Knyazes. They had married across countries here and there, attaining softer features rather than the hard jawed, dark strong looks native to Russia. The bride was soft, pale, something of the French in her looks. Her father however, was a stern man, a retired Brigadier who'd climb the ranks of officers with sheer battle prowess, and was rewarded for his efforts abroad with the title of Baron.

Catherine herself had put the title in his hands, esteeming him by name.

The Title was not meant for a _titular_ effect alone, for they owned several acres of land all over the countryside. Farms and estates befitting the title, rich and now elevated as noble, lucky enough under Catherine's rule. As for new money? Elijah did not think it so. The Forbes were too well-off, their investments old enough to disprove Rebekah's condescending views. _She's growing old, and she's growing mad_, Rebekah complaints ever plagued his thoughts, annoying and waspish. Voice reedy and stretched shrill with all her irrational indignation, _next she'll be making kings out of pig herders and Cossacks._

It might have been treason if heard said, but Rebekah was smart enough to only share these snarky criticisms with her brothers. Clever enough to keep her head on her shoulders.

Though their family had been excused from military service, Niklaus and Elijah were still heavily invested in it. Elijah for duty, Niklaus for reasons Elijah preferred not to dwell too long on. Finn was still in Paris, immersed in his studies, sending them the occasional forlorn letter in his typical melancholy hand.

Elijah was still making plans to see him safely escorted back home, for France was becoming a prickly place for any noble to reside in safely. Elijah did not care very much for rank on a moral level, so much as for his need to rationalize an order to people. For all the 'freedom' the Manifesto of Freedom had given the nobles, the Empire still depended on the serfs for their industry and the bulk of their military men. Most of Elijah's own regiment was made up of the most hard working, resourceful serfs for soldiers. A breed that he could never dream of complaining about, for as much as Rebekah liked to turn her nose at them they were still essential to the workings of their country, and thus significant enough for Elijah to not think lowly of them. Condescension and arrogance against a people bred discontentment and disillusionment, dangerous feelings to drive the masses over the streets of Petersburg to slit the throat of every snob that ever dared mock them.

A very French revolution would be nigh, he would not have that happening here.

He did not think Madame Forbes empty headed, either. She was beautiful, fair haired, and where other brides blushed and kept their heads down meekly during their weddings, Madame Forbes stared her husband in the eye, composed and exuding a confidence he was sure she did not feel. Elijah was keen of eye, he thought he could see her hands shake, ever so slightly

Tyler was loyal, (but not to women) Elijah knew, reckless and rash in his passions. He could be good company, or particularly hazardous. He only hoped Caroline had as much spine as her mother - in order to put some sense and maturity into the young man's head - who stood back with jaw strong, and chin tipped up, proud and faintly disapproving. The woman who stood by her husband soldierly, no tender looks were exchanged between them, in fact they seemed content to ignore each other.

It was peculiar.

Weddings were tainted in Elijah's eyes, a formal duty, a draining one. He had attended so many! It simply had become a chore to put so much expense and effort in an endeavor that rarely ever ended well. Marriage was not to be honeyed down, but to be borne with dignity and grace. His marriage was the same, his parents marriage had been the same, and so were the Forbes as well, it seemed.

Frankincense swelled in a posthumous smoke cloud on this formal affair. More formal than any this little village had ever seen for Elijah and the other few army comrades were the highest ranking guests, the audience in the church observed them with excited whispers, awed by their attendance, it was a show of power and influence for the Lockwoods to have convinced such distinguished members to attend.

Though showing power and influence in somewhere as quiet and slow as the country, and to lowly country lords and their subjects seemed something like a wasted effort. Tyler should have brought his bride to the capital and conducted the wedding ceremony there. The ceremony in the city would have no doubt been grander as well as better attended. The rest of the aristocracy were puzzled at such a hasty arrangement, and so far away into the country, during the gray rainy season where the roads would be too muddy to allow the passage of carriages.

The soldiers looked a royal sight in their blue uniforms, burnished buttons and riding boots. Hats squashed stiffly beneath their arms, and standing as if at attention on the sidelines, sword hilts with golden luster dimming in the gloomy church confines.

The bride, however, had not complained about the location or the immediacy of the nuptials barely a fortnight after he'd proposed. She had accepted the proposal without demanding any confessions of earnest love, and let her Father make a business arrangement of her. From the way she gripped her newly made husband's hand and the almost giddy light in her eyes she probably thought Lockwood her chance at an escape from the countryside.

But that wasn't fair of him to think, Elijah scolded himself gravelly, not everyone was a self-serving opportunist. She was just nervous, it was expected.

The more common folk were here as well, the majority of the gawking came from them. Dressed in their colorful finest, (which were rags compared to the finery of the city) you could know them for what they were due to their simpleton faces, broad and tanned by hard work, hungry but merry with the celebration to make their lives a little less gray, a little less bleak. Caroline was a lady, but she still smiled at them. He even saw her embrace a maid, which Tyler smiled awkwardly at the sight of, just as bewildered as the Petersburg guests but clever enough not to comment.

The crowds finally did pour into the courtyard for refreshments, husband and wife arm in arm ran out with the elderly shuffling behind them. Elijah took this as his cue to slip into the shadows. He would not suffer to be dragged into any dances or merry making. Someone passed him a cup of wine with a chipped wooden rim before he retreated into a quieter corner of the church.

This was routine for him when it came to every ceremonial event, to make an appearance and as soon as having made one, pay his respects and/or blessings and then just as quietly disappear. It was easier this way, he was such a somber gray man that he was sure he would have made any ceremony funereal by impressing himself upon the hosts too much. He himself had little patience for the frivolities of the ceremonies that did take place. He'd gotten used to it, he was satisfied with it, it worked well for everyone in the end.

The church has its own rustic charm he supposed, watching the few people that loitered within its confines. Its windows were colored reds and blues, with little actual beauty compared to the glass blown windows commissioned from Italy by the great cathedrals of Petersburg. It was not visually very impressive, someone had varnished the seats with a hasty, unskilled hand, trying to cover up the notches and chips in the wooden surface in time for the wedding. A cross hung from ceiling to floor, painted gold and wrought with sculpted vines. With workmanship that seemed apart from the rest of its surroundings, the way the priest jealously wiped the feet of the bleeding Christ hung there suggested it might have been the finest thing the church had ever owned.

He went to it, saw Christ's feet pointed downwards, heels twisted over each other. Elijah looked for that stir of God in him, some spiritual spark, but found nothing. All he saw when he looked up at the gaunt face and its pins and snaring crown snagged in the hair was a sculpture. Religion was Finn's tale.

Divinity was delusion.

Perhaps that sentiment he shared with his brother, one of the rare things they could agree upon. _You are a good man_, people liked to tell Elijah, _you have honor._

The smile that came to his lips was unbidden, rueful. A flash of something in a face that was as composed and un-shifting as grave stone. _I have the honor, but none of the faith. I am robbed by my own reasoning, my own rationality, how sweet it would be to believe, even for a moment. How sweet it would be to believe in spiritual salvation._

He was almost to fall into his own thoughts, to brood and be bemused by how his brother's cynicism had begun to grow into his own, but A flash of bewilderment made him halt suddenly underneath the altar. Dark hair, a girl's face, and eyes that knocked the breath from his lungs.

Katerina.

She did not even notice him as she slipped out, smiling and laughing at something some boy said. A tall head of yellow hair muffled under a cap, bending by hers, saying some jolly thing that lit up her face in ways he'd always hoped his wife's could again. A slice of a memory, a face misplaced in the present.

Elijah was astonished. It was not his wife, he was sure. Katerina was at their home days away, and she turned up her nose at things like the country. _So cold,_ she would yawn, bored. _You don't need me to hold your hand, do you?_

If the resemblance was uncanny, then the differences were miraculous. Her countenance was everything he'd once seen in his wife, a warmness to her laughter, some fresh life to her that Katerina had long ago lost.

For a moment she turned her head, eyes searching around as if she instinctively felt someone's gaze on her. She was still smiling when she met his gaze, illuminated like Northern lights. Elijah's hands felt clammy, he found himself bowing his head stiffly to her from across the room, knowing not for the life of him what else to do. He had never felt so disarmed, not in a very long time.

She slipped out the door by the time he raised his gaze again, catching only the sight of the falling light and dew hanging to the hem of her pale cotton dress.

Elijah set his cup under the altar, Christ's feet hovering over the pool of red wine offered up and silently followed out.

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><p>Snowflakes. Rice in her hair. Enough bad wine to ease the passage of forced laughter, and parents who watch the proceedings with all the severity of soldiers at a funeral. Her mother had been a soldier's daughter, Caroline was a brigadier's daughter, though she had steel in her blood she was still only a girl. A girl with a girl's petty longings, the starved need for affection, for merry distractions to be found in silk and the taste of marzipan. Perhaps her husband had married her in haste (enough haste to raise suspicion of great scandal for all those who talked), but powerful men had attended, soldiers imperial and respected.<p>

People had come to the wedding and seen _Caroline._

Perhaps he was rash, and impudent as a child sometimes, but he was wealthy, he was kind, and he looked at her sometimes as if she hung the very moon. Squeezed her hand in his as they left the church wedded, mouth in a grin so boyish it had her heart a flutter of a while.

He was not cruel, as far as she saw, and he had chosen her first. Strolled into their estate on a fine evening and introduced himself to the country lords as was ceremonially expected of visiting nobles. The first time she saw him she thought him too young, too restless to ever settle for a marriage, to a commitment like that - but when he looked up from where he sat by the fire all those months ago, she saw the way the flames lit his face in liquid orange, made his ordinary brown eyes flash light like copper in a wishing well, gold in a moment quite extraordinary.

_He's a cocky little pug_, Father had told her thoughtfully, cradling a glass of deep red at the end of the day, _but he's as good blood as any, the Lockwood family has a name worth taking._

When Tyler asked to marry her he asked father's permission to court her. Father had given one of his lingering frowns, the look that tested and weighed and made a strict ruling, before he had shrugged, waved a hand and somehow allowed it. He saw an opportunity for his daughter, should she wish to take it.

Her mother saw a cursed move made too early. Y_ou do not know his character, not his _true_ character. Do not be rash._

He was interesting enough in comparison to all the other (very few) men she'd ever been acquainted with. This far west not many nobles ventured, it was very difficult to meet them. It was always too cold or the roads too wet for them to come. Tyler's purpose had been deliberate and direct, he had informed her father that he wanted a wife as soon as he could get one. Courtship had been quick with a specific goal in mind.

Tyler it seemed, for all his boyish graces had seen her as a means to an end, for what she had no idea. This was fair enough, she thought of him the same way. Caroline loved the countryside, her friends and family, but she could not bear to suffer its calm life any longer, and she wanted to marry, wanted to invest her love in someone. She did not love Tyler, but she believed she could, and she would and _that_ would make the both of them happy in the end.

Father said he was unexpectedly shrewd in this, _for a Lockwood_.

She wondered if she could believe it, for Caroline could not imagine that the same animated face telling her of how Catherine the Great once visited their regiment, how when she laid a hand upon his head he felt his heart dizzy and perish, like he'd been touched by the hand of the saint, and yet imagine this same boy telling her father so frankly what he sought. A woman to bear his children.

There was little seduction on his part at least, he'd laid his terms clearly enough and his luck was good in finding her beautiful, so it was not so bad. Caroline performed the necessary dance of gestures and womanly advances expected on her part, and was rewarded by his final decision. He asked her to marry him, and though he might not have loved her, there was a lust there. Not lewd, but definitely appreciative.

She knew marriage was not always pleasant, that she might never love him. But if she stayed here she might have rotted in the countryside forever with no one else so willing to come by and marry her at all! And what would have become of her then? Sent by an Aunt to the capital to either find a husband, or take up under some powerful man as a mistress, in this day and age these kind of choices were commonplace.

She would try to love him, she had decided, it could not be so difficult.

_My dear,_ her mother despaired, sat in the corner of the drawing room, looking exhausted, _you are young still._

She was five and ten, she was old enough to be married. Victoria Donovan already had children by the time she was three and ten, though she was only a bookbinder's daughter (and a _Cossack_) and the rules were different and much less silly. Not mentioning that Victoria was not married at all, but set up house with an apple cheeked boy from Hungary where they lived as well as man and wife did.

Jeremy had been devastated, Elena had patted his hand consolingly but confessed privately to Caroline that she was relieved. The Gilbert family was a small affair, the two siblings had no blood left but each other and their Aunt, and though their family vaults were enough to sustain them, they were not enough to elevate them. Elena wanted Jeremy to go to the capital for his studies, not pursue a girl who had no qualms about destroying his spirit and passion for love in the end anyway.

A string of music flared in the garden, a snake tailing through pockets of laughter and merriment. Tyler's hand found hers beneath the table, and her heart lightened. His hand was warm, it felt peculiarly large around her own, but not unwelcome.

It was still light in the garden outside the church, tables spread around in a loose circle, the married couple at the head. At this hour the sun seemed to hit his eyes the way they had that first time by the fire, set them copper and gold, burnished and full of a smile directed only at her. There was a slow lingering want in there, a satisfaction in securing what was his.

Normally that would have made her cross, but she swallowed, her stomach flipping, her Noh mask dissolving in the mid-autumn light, like sugar cubes in hot tea. Her hand felt so clammy she quickly extracted it from his to make a grab for her glass. The alcohol burned her throat, doing nothing to calm her frazzled nerves. She did not want to even _think_ of what was to come, it would only make her face redder than it already was. _A warm body,_ Vicky had murmured when she still used to visit the manor, Elena would look terrified, _Nothing beats a warm body in your sheets, crass as you think it. It's wonderful._

Tyler was handsome in his uniform, with strong shoulders and a fine frame. Dark blue soldier and she his wife, it was a thing to be proud of. She wondered what he looked like underneath them, was his skin scarred? Was he burnt and hurt? Would she be able to trace the ghosts of his old wounds with her fingertips? Surely not all military men were as base and ugly as Mother so viciously pressed, the war between her and her husband flaring up in her arguments against the union of Lockwood and Forbes. Father's..._appetites_ had made her prejudiced, of course.

She looked at Tyler again, a man had come to his side, shaking his hand profusely and winking. A conversation filled with loud hardy laughter. True Russian bears.

Tyler had had lovers, of course, he was too handsome not to have, too confident with her not to warrant some understanding of past rendezvous. _Marriage is binding, but love is not,_ women liked to titter, _he will lay with other women, no matter how much he loves you._

Her Father was a sinner who made brothers and put them above his wife. He lusted for his friends far more than he had ever loved his wife. _He has not shared her bed for twelve years,_ the maids would titter bemusedly.

Caroline squared her jaw. This would not happen. She would not allow it, of course. Her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass, and she smiled slow and small when her husband's eyes met hers. He looked relieved and had obviously been afraid he'd frightened her, no doubt to the point where he would have had to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to coax her into his bed, which would have been a most taxing and unhappy endeavor for any mortal man to undertake.

The music had struck up a tempo, perfect for dancing.

"Caroline," He laid his hand on the table, palm up. Something maddeningly imploring about that single gesture, almost sweet. "If you would do me the honor."

She gingerly laid her fingers across his palm, he closed them over the back of her knuckles, a trapping more delicate than any.

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><p>—<p>

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_Oh, the night's like a whirlwind. Somebody's girlfriend's talkin' to me, "but its alright," She's sayin'  
>that he's not gonna slap me or try to attack me. He's not the jealous type.<br>And then the first time it occurred that there was something to destroy I knew before the invitation  
>that there was this ploy. Oh, but she carried on suggestin', I struggled to refuse,<br>She said "It's the red wine this time, but that is no excuse"_

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><p><strong>end notes:<strong> i put a whole lot more heart and effort into this story considering its long hiatus, so i hope it showed, and i hope it paid off. so, is this style more improved or do you like the old one better (for those who've been with this story before the hiatus)? if you liked the old one better you can find a link to the old stuff on my tumblr that you can read and reread to your heart's desire. but this is the point we're taking the story from, and this is the angle from which it's going, i hope i didn't disappoint those who've been waiting for this!

i just wanna thank you guys again. thank you so much, you've been so patient and understanding! despite the fact that i promised like five months ago that i would update in three days. hannah had the audacity to call me on my bullshit in a review, haha. go check out her stories, she's having a new steroline fic coming out, the teasers of which i've read make me cry tears because of ALL THE FEELZ.

any comments or criticisms you guys wanna make, please leave a word if you can!

also, dude, don't be afraid to check out my other stories. not everything is period-drama concentrated, so for those of you who prefer the more cannon stuff, well, go there!

Some of you who review will be told that you can't because you've 'already posted a review for this chapter' when in actuality you didn't, because the chapter you had reviewed had been a completely OLD chapter that I now replaced. If you can't review, then please just review anonymously, it'll be much smoother going! thanks!


	3. Barely Legal, The Strokes

**disclaimer:** i own nothing.  
><strong>dedication:<strong> to faithful readers, and reviewers. you have waited long. also, people who recognize my lyric choices simply upon sight are divine beings deserving of special cookies and making story requests at some point in time.  
><strong>warning:<strong> this is still a mule-slow story, the beginning chapters are what they are, only the_ beginning._  
><strong>notes:<strong> not beta-d, every mistake may be excused as genius or something. i don't know, i updated. elijah is here, leave me alone.  
><strong>even moar notes:<strong> one of the reasons i had decided to redo this story was because of the historical oversights i'd commited beforehand which i considered inexcusable, one of them being that this is the mid 18th century being written about, a few years before the crux of the french revolution, catherine the great is old - and i'd made the mistake of introducing a train station in the other story and referencing pushkin when neither had even come into existence in russia in that timeline in the old version of the room on fire. so this story is not infallibly accurate this time, _but_ it is decidedly precise, i'm definitely avoiding making any stupid mistakes because i love you readers too much to do that. also, i am a russian history whore, and i cannot disregard historical inaccuracy, so there.

btw, i cannot thank reviewers enough, you are wonderful wonderful people, and i love you. you have motivated me to see this story through to the end, through hell and high water. be assured of smexy times coming to a theater near you, _soon._

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><p>.<p>

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.

I didn't take no shortcuts  
>I spent the money that I saved up<br>Oh, Momma running out of luck  
>Like my sister, don't give a fuck<p>

_I wanna steal your innocence. To me, my life, it don't make sense.  
>Those strange manners, I loved 'em so; "Why won't you wear your new trench coat?"<br>I should've worked much harder. I should've just not bothered.  
>I never show up on weekdays. Something that you learned yesterday.<br>"Drive you to work; you'll be on time. These little problems they're not yours and mine,"  
>"Come on and listen to what I say. I've got some secrets that'll make you stay"<em>

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—

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><p><strong>A lifetime ago;<strong>

* * *

><p>Happiness, he'd told his brother, was a fanciful notion. A whimsical illusion that was better frequented and isolated to the thinking and madness of a woman, rather than entertained by a man who certainly knew better.<p>

Damon knew better than to strive for happiness. He _advised_ his brother, _wished_ him well, but he was honest with Stefan about his thoughts. Call him a scoundrel, a rake, but one thing Damon would not have said of him was that he was one to lie to family.

Stefan's endeavors were of the kind, responsible, overachieving nature their father so loved. Wearing the mantle of the favored son, the put-upon second born mercy to the irresponsible nature of his elder and shouldering all the weight of the family by himself...well, if Damon wanted to be a saint he would not have left Naples and their dour little farmlands. If Damon wanted to be a saint he'd have joined a monastery.

He could no longer bear to be hemmed in by their old olive trees and the shambling vineyards. He could no longer bear the boring country girls anymore, he'd had each and every one of them, after all. Tupped them over the hay in his father's barns, as well as in the lofts of _their_ father's stables. He could no longer bear father's disapproving sighs, and Stefan's self-righteous blather. He could not _stay_, he was simply not made for staying _anywhere._

The sun was high in the sky, beating down on their backs. Stefan's face was pale and quivering, but his eyes were strangely dry - Damon did not ask, impatiently toying with the brim of his hat as the field hands began to pick up their shovels. His brow felt hot, his clothes stuffy in the oppressive heat, he would sweat through them and he'd much rather not.

Personally, the elder Salvatore was relieved. Their father had been such a proper bore - but he had still been their father, there was an obligation to love one of blood, a weary duty of care that he'd had to uphold.

The sickness had seeped into Giuseppe's lungs. They had spent weeks with Stefan bringing every doctor from Venice to Rome, desperate for some sort of solution. Not that Damon had been idle either, he'd been taking care of the accounts, handling ledgers, sorting disputes with the peasants that lived on their estate. _He_ hadn't been useless, so he didn't understand why that made him the unruly brother. He'd taken the sensible route, he'd made contingency plans, prepared for the inevitable death of their father. He would not have their estates falling apart immediately after Father's death just because they hadn't taken the necessary precautions.

Damon managed the estate whilst Stefan frolicked around looking for something to correct the sickness.

When his little brother returned to Naples, sweating under the cuff, hair awry, he looked a death himself.

Furthermore, when Stefan ambled out of his carriage, dust hedging the hem of his coat, heavy on his hat, he had stormed into the study quite changed from the placid saint Damon wearied of. When he heard from one of the servants that Damon had called a lawyer to settle the property there came upon him such a change in countenance, Damon was _quite_ shocked with him.

His face had lost all color, and then his eyes became as wild as fury, such an animal departure from his normal complacent attitude that he hurled himself at Damon, shouting - (always the _shouting_ in this family.) "He isn't even dead yet!" The lawyer had stepped back and away in fear, curving himself quietly into the wall. Stefan's hands had sprung, fisted in Damon's collar, shook hard - there was a tussle and not of the playful brotherly kind, not of the summers they'd spend tackling each other for sport. It was much more menacing, nothing of sport in it, much more raw. He shoved Damon against the banister of the stairs, eyes clawing into his. "He isn't even dead yet!"

Things might have accelerated, blood might have been shed if not for the harsh coughing coming from the room, scraping against the walls like steel against stone. Stefan pulled back and went off like a dog to seek their father, pursing his lips and stalking away.

Damon had reached around his neck, massaging the skin there and flashed the lawyer a mean grin. "If he isn't happy now, I wonder how he'll be when he finds out the final contents of our dear father's will."

The final contents of father's will were reasonable, practical, and all the more wounding for _being_ so. The management of the property would be left to their uncle - a stern man Damon had never liked - named Zachariah. When the lawyer had taken them down again into the drawing room and said as much, Stefan had looked like someone had just knifed him in the gut, Damon looked like he hadn't expected any less.

Expecting things made for _fine_ disappointments, wouldn't you say?

No doubt Stefan had thought that their father had thought _him_ an acceptable responsible little fellow and should have inherited the business or everything of note. He had expected it, and thus he had been disappointed. Of course their allowances would still be in place, and their allowances had further actually grown to accommodate even more wealthy pleasures, and they didn't have to work for a penny of it! Oh to be rich, young, irresponsible! Damon found little to despair over on these terms.

Stefan did not begrudge the decision and told their uncle exactly this, but Damon watched his little brother and there had been a new coolness in his eyes, a little shadow of the bitterness that his free willed older brother was normally the one who cultivated in feeling.

Their father had not trusted _either_ of them, and that was alright. All of Stefan's saintly airs had been for naught. The decision had been made on the grounds of their being too young, and it _stung._

The heave of dirt, falling heavily over the casket brought his brother back to life, and he looked to Damon as if for direction. Faintly annoyed with feeling obliged to do so in the first place. "What do we do now?"

Damon could not help the little twitch of condescension to his lips. Now, _there_ was the fix. "You and I have never really been a we, before, Stefan. At least not for the past five years. I will not endeavor to join us into a unit."

Stefan turned his chin down, a flash of a wound in his concentrated stare at the brittle gravel. "You are my brother."

Whatever had been between them had seemed to dull and die a long time ago. Whether it was because Damon had lost himself in the war he'd fought when he was young and suited with a soldier's colors and delusions of patriotism, and been dragged back cold and unfeeling by their persistent father who had hated his decision. _War is not a gentleman's occupation, not a merchant's occupation, let the rabbles fight the wars._

Italians are lazy soldiers, people joked, Europe's finest are Russians, the Dutch. Let the others drink their wine and fuck their women, else wise they're fucked in war.

A crass way of looking at it, no doubt. Damon had been determined to prove those naysayers wrong. But by the time they'd dragged Damon back he hadn't really wanted to fight anymore, the war had not pleased him. It had made him sour, and unrepentantly unmanageable. He had taken his war to the church, hurled stones at cathedral glass, and brought his mutiny to the throne of god and been hurled out like a curr.

Gone was the kind older brother, returned was the begrudging bitter man who diverted every kindness directed at him with sharp retorts, witty as they were painful.

Stefan had lost his brother to the war, but then again, when it came to garnering the affections of their father, gaining his approval, Stefan hadn't really cared about winning his brother back, had he? Damon was used to those he thought he could love giving up on him, but to see Stefan do it was another blow entirely.

_Where were you,_ he wanted to ask, _when I was miserable?_

Stefan had been there, but he had been too young to understand how to help, how to assist. The whole house treated Damon like a wounded, ailing animal with no idea how to cure it, waiting for him to leave and not at all wanting him to stay, really. If they'd wanted him to stay, they would have tried harder.

Damon's mood soured, his hat mercy to the might of his hands. He ignored Stefan's soft proclamation, the wounded sadness to him, the weariness. "There's nothing keeping me here any longer. Certainly no obligation or work that keeps you here either, we've both seen how Zachariah works, he doesn't like anyone in the way." I daresay he's having a field-day getting to oust us. Of course the older man was only temporarily holding the leadership for them until they were deemed older and therefore wiser, or at least until he died. Damon considered this next, "May he live a long life, for I have no intention of taking back father's works ever again."

Stefan nodded, a single terse acknowledgment. Though the dismissal still chaffed at him, Damon could tell. "So, where will you go?"

"Where won't I go?"

Damon pulled on his hat, fingers then twining around the head of his cane. Anticipation overcame him like the slow crawl of alcohol on a chilly night, loosening him up like a smile - he was a free man, vaults of money at his expense, everything in his reach. The world was his oyster and all of that, really. What was there to worry about, to fear? There was nothing left for any of them in Naples. There was nothing to stay for.

"I will see everything there is to see, and taste ever delicacy the civilized world has to offer."

"Drinking and debauchery?" Stefan said, disapproval creeping under his tone as it hardened. "What an exquisite palate you have."

"It is the simple things that make a man happy." His patience stretched thin, especially with the oh-so-constantly self righteous reply of his brother. Father was gone, they needn't play these charades anymore.

"Decadence makes no one happy." Stefan pressed. Saints knew nothing of decadence, so really, how would his do-good-all brother know?

"Happiness is an illusion, decadence is the next best thing, much more real."

"Damon, don't do this. You were a man of God once - I know we have not been on the greatest of terms but -"

"I'll be leaving on the morrow." He said, turning.

"Your prime occupations are drinking and whoring, leave them." Stefan implored again, voice faint, as if the whirlwind that was his brother had already destroyed him beyond any form of salvation, for either of them. "Leave that past behind us, Damon. Don't let your anger about loosing eat you up, it's over."

Damon didn't give his brother a backward glance. He wanted a world large enough for them to loose each other in, he didn't want to look at his brother and hate him. Hate tasted bitter as bile, and he would rather not feel it.

He decided on Venice, on Vienna, what better place to leave one's soul for?

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><p><strong>A lifetime now;<strong>

* * *

><p>He had been as gentle as he possibly could have, and he did not paw at her too much. Tyler smiled reassuringly, but it only made her aware that he'd obviously done this before, that he was no stranger to unvirtuous women. Her mother had told her so, it was to be expected. The only maid in the marriage was herself, but Caroline had hoped - she had hoped that maybe her own husband would be different, and be as tentative and tenderly afraid as she was.<p>

She wished he could blow out the candle but already he was kissing her throat, lingering hot kisses on her skin, burying into her heart. He was hungry, but he was being careful. Her skin crawled even as her smile broke across her face in a nervous stutter - Tyler only hushed her, said she was a princess and he would treat her so, but even as he held her gaze, impeaching trust, his fingers made quick economical work of the laces keeping her shift together.

He was beautiful, she told herself, let her appreciate the striking line of his strong jaw, the lean folds of muscle hugging his spine, sturdy, the strong roll of his shoulders working.

His stubble tickled when he nicked his teeth on her collar bone, it reminded her of Sasha, the big hound who licked her face and nipped at her heels and the image was so absurd - what a thought to have in one's marriage bed, to liken her husband to a slobbering dog even when she should lament being devoured. Caroline knew she should have shrunk beneath his touches, flinched even but suddenly she simply couldn't for she found herself giggling.

Tyler pulled back from kissing her and frowned so petulantly any attempt to sober up her humor promptly vanished. Elena would be aghast, telling her to stop cackling so, that it was dreadfully unbecoming for a noble born lady! Caroline's face reddened, laughter building in her chest, even as he picked her up like she weighed nothing, his arm cradling her bottom in a way that had her wiggling. Oh surely, this was so improper! She was supposed to be a blushing virgin! And she was, but - Tyler breathed hotly on her skin, he made her feel so very ticklish.

Oh - her mouth gasped when he dropped her on the bed, silk duvet and feather stuffing poofing beneath her body, and he was bewildered by her apparent humour. He towered over her, she'd torn of his shirtsleeves at some point before, and it was disconcerting to be under the full study of that gaze. She remembered, a little of the wonder of his eyes from the first time she'd seen him before, the gold flecks so drawn to her, the locus of whole universes. Caroline couldn't laugh anymore, the space between his skin and hers seemed to burn and she realized for true - she had a man in her bed. Tyler wasn't a boy, he was a man looking at her very directly and making a strange sort of feeling spread warmly from the tail of her spine through her whole body. It was uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant, because oh. He had a hand by her head, the imprint of it digging into her blankets as he angled his head as if that would let him take her apart better. Perhaps it did, because she felt herself, little by little being displaced, disassembled under those peculiar eyes. It made the room feel too small for the both of them, with its ebbing candles and the shadows it dragged and deepened across his skin, across her skin, fusing him to her and her to him even as they barely touched.

"Caroline," he said, and only Mathew had ever said her name like that before, so young and earnest and wanting. But then he smiled, a toothy embarrassed pull of his lips that could almost make him look nervous. Confident of himself, not fumbling like a boy. He knew exactly what to do in a bed, was well acquainted, and it left Caroline's cheeks burning, her heart sinking a little, feeling very uncomfortably out of her depth. He was careful, true, but almost to the point of being economical. These were motions a married couple must move through, with poise and grace. The marital bed was just another part of an arrangement. "Have you drunk much wine? You're not very nervous." his grin skewered, almost politely hopeful, but the way his brows rose told her that hearing she was not a virgin would not make him happy at all. Caroline did not enjoy that, the tentative trust only barely veiled mistrust between the both of them so early in a marriage.

He hovered still, her hands squashed between their bodies. If she lifted her thumb she could scrape her touch across the hot ridges of his stomach, down down down and truly disarm him. Asking if she was a maiden, how dare he? Her smile broadened, sharpened, and she fashioned her eyes into two points made to wound, to tease, to taunt. "Perhaps I've done this before," She exclaimed airily, licking her lips and raising her body inches up, she took a chance - the wine had made her heady, as daring as she'd been as a child before her mischief has been beaten out of her with piano lessons and hours of French - he hissed between his teeth when she nudged with her leg, propping her calf behind his knee, the material of his trousers curiously harsh against the bare silk of her skin. Tyler would look fiercely angry, if he didn't look so intrigued by the slow slide of her leg to loop behind that deliciously defined place where his knee met his thigh. "Or," she drawled, "Perhaps I'm simply ticklish."

The mattress shifted, his gaze dropped to her mouth again. "Perhaps."

Caroline rolled her eyes, and decided she would try see his petulance as endearing, she raised her hands from between them and ran them up his chest. His heart beat steadily against her palm, and she smiled at him, feeling sorry for being so defensive. He was indeed a lot like Sasha, and his hard expression smoothed and softened when she cupped her hands around his jaw, up and up, sliding her thumbs soothingly below his eyes.

"Husband, I only jest," she whispered, shocked by how easily he could be angered, and yet how quickly she could subdue him. It made her heart grow so sweetly, like it was about to burst out of her chest with fondness. "I am no one else's, I have never been any one else's."

He sighed, smiling, it was almost apologetic. "I had only thought - the Cossack..."

She tried not to react at the mention of Mathew, but it was like he'd pricked her heart, she was so ready to forget Mathew and start loving her husband. Caroline's calf rested around him still, and she dug her fingers into his brown hair - looked resolutely into his brown wolf eyes. This was the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. Tyler Lockwood.

Another lady might have slapped him for his assumption, that she would love a man beneath her station would be heresy. Let alone to bring a Cossack into her bed. However, it was not so long ago she had run off into the stables and begged a Cossack to take her away, far far away from a marriage that she did not want. She had only ever wanted to marry Mathew, but love alone doesn't keep bellies full, love doesn't build houses, love doesn't keep you warm.

He had told her _No_. With the saddest eyes in the world, even when she begged, he turned away and begged her in turn not to ask it of him.

Caroline was not thankful of understanding why he would not take her away, she loved him, there would always be a part of her that loved him - more so for refusing her. Nothing could ever come of it though, and that was alright. They had decided this together.

"You are my husband," Caroline said, a low flutter in her belly. It still felt strange to say the word. "There is no one else."

"No one else?" The grin that broke out on his face again stole her breath away, "I'd considered breaking his legs."

She smacked his arm, mouth twisting, almost alarmed. "Don't joke about such matters. I might also like to ask what man asks such questions so lightly in his wife's bed?"

His grin grew toothier, his canines were oddly sharp, or maybe she imagined them so. There was the hot feeling again, right in her heart, like she was too full she might die. She smacked his arm again, soundly reprimanding him, "And are you so jealous of a mere stable hand? Perhaps I _have_ had a man in my bed before, so you might as well do your worst Tyler Lockwood, I daresay there's nothing that can surprise me."

He was smirking then, smug and knowing. "I've been cheated then, I thought I married a maiden fair!"

"I thought I was to marry a fine lieutenant, but they have gotten me a brute who tickles me with his beard."

"That is unkind, wife!"

" I hear there are plenty fair in Petersburg , but few maidens."

"You are fairest in all of Russia."

"But not so chaste?"

"We'll have to see." And he kissed her so soundly she could barely breathe with happiness.

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><p>When they left for Petersburg the day after, no one tried to stop her. She hadn't really expected them to, seeing that she'd agreed to the whole thing, but a small part of her reserved to her petty childhood thought that those elms would bow over her head weeping like they would in the winter, that the grass and cobble path leading to the main door might snag at her shoes as if to beg her company forever.<p>

It was anticlimatic. The leaves rolled around their heads, brilliant reds and dust beaten browns carried on the pale blue gust of winter's mournful breath. It would be beautiful after the dawn had truly faded from the sky, but she would be long gone by then.

The house had been grand by country standards, it huddled into itself, gray eyes for its windows watching her and them family and servants gathered below. A child's begrudging glare from a corner, she would see beautiful things in Petersburg that would no doubt thieve the wonder from her simplistic little home. It had been her castle, her fort for all her life - the wooden beams would shake whenever they ran too fast inside the house, forever filled with the frenzied, loud claps of children's feet.

Caroline gave the world faces with Elena as children. Their manor looked at them mulishly but did no more.

What an imagination, the humid air she'd always bemoaned as the cause of bad hair care now felt very nostalgic. _She_ felt nostalgic.

Her mother folded her in an embrace that felt like steel, arms closing around her to remind her of her own smallness. The Baroness looked her stern in the eye, and gave her a singular nod, as if speaking was too much, like it would snap her in two. Her father watched Tyler Lockwood with hard, warning eyes above an unnervingly surface-worth smile. He had given his daughter away, it seemed, but he would not like to hear anything about her being unhappy.

Elena had woken up late, and appeared in the lineup in a rush of cotton and a shawl - her pretty face pinking with the realization of her own appearance, she wasn't one to oversleep. When Caroline came to her the other girl just threw her arms around her, eyes shining. Caroline hugged her back so hard, she would miss Elena. Now that Caroline was no longer there and Elena would not have a female companion it was more like she would be sent back to her own family home where her Aunt would prepare her for marriage and a future without Caroline in it.

"You must write," Elena begged, her eyes wide. Her mouth in a watery line that tried to straighten into something firm and no-nonsense, her governess voice. "You must tell me everything."

Caroline looked over her shoulder, her husband - her cheeks burnt, it was so strange to call someone that - was having words with her father, the Baron held fast to Tyler's hand and Tyler had the wits not to laugh at this intimidation tactic, he looked the sort of man to laugh at older men. They would have to leave soon, a few of Tyler's regiment friends were shifting uncomfortably in the mid autumn dawn, kicking their feet at the brittle ground as if wishing for familiar snow to circle their heels. She heard it snowed very much in Petersburg.

"I will," Caroline whispered, her smile meant to reassure. "And you too, you must tell me everything."

Elena's face flushed redder than Caroline had ever thought even her fair skin could allow. "Of course, I would," but she stumbled too quickly over the words. Caroline was intrigued, and it must have shown, because Elena looked decidedly embarrassed for being so transparent. It was something Caroline could always count upon, as beautiful as Elena was, she was never calculating, she never hid anything - not even when she tried. Caroline had always been the true lady, slipping on whatever mask required of her. Elena's grip on her grew urgent, as if to anchor Caroline somehow. "Do you love him, yet?"

"No, not yet." Caroline said, a little ruefully. They'd had this conversation before. "I will learn to."

She was a good learner. A lady had to be.

Elena nodded, her hair was immaculate still, even in wild bed tangles. Caroline wondered, a little petty, if Mathew had already decided it was time to start kissing her friend now that Caroline was married and suitably out of the way. It was a silly, juvenile thought, but it lacked the bitter resolution it would usually have been accompanied with in her past. It felt silly to be jealous now. It would be ungracious.

"He's a lieutenant," her mouth twitched, "He's brave. He can't be too difficult to love, can he, Elena?"

"You," Elena's eyes were soft, so bright with hope and love and sweet sadness. "are stronger than anyone I know, Caroline, and if love is difficult then there is no one better than you in overcoming its hurdles."

She felt lifted up by that, lit up from the inside with Elena's unwavering love, and all of her optimism. Hope was an involuntary human response, she knew, hope was something people clutched to - desperately, odds be damned. She would miss her so terribly, she sniffed in spite of herself, biting on her lip, "My dear," she laughed, and it was a sound filled with tears. "you sound a romantic."

"All creatures should be romantics," Elena said, darting up her toes with her loveliest smile, kissing her cheek.

With that they parted, Tyler had come in before Caroline could reply with something equally poignant - something as full of love for Elena as Elena was full of love for her. They linked fingertips as they had when they were children, only parting when her husband had to help her into the coach.

The army folk tipped their hats to her father and mounted their horses, Tyler looked almost uncomfortable seated on the plush cushions, like he would much rather also be on a horse. He smiled tightly at her, no doubt meant to be encouraging. The coach moved, wheels stumbling over gravel and dirt, she waved at her family till she could no longer see them, Elena's pale quavering face disappearing as they faded into the main road.

She must have been crying, because Tyler shifted from opposite her to pull into her side. Her wrapped an arm around her shoulders and let her clutch his uniform between her fingers, let her hide her face at his neck.

He hushed her, palm rubbing soothing circles into her side, whispering soft unintelligible sounds. Calming a spooked horse as gently as Mathew would have. It only made her cry anew, the tears burst into her head into an unstoppable wave of sadness.

He hadn't come to see her off, but she had seen him before she went to bed with her husband. His eyes had been so blue and so wrought with sadness it had made Caroline almost beg him to take her away again.

He had wished her well, kissed her hand and turned away down the corridor before father could have caught him sneaking around the house again. She had been left with the sight of his broad shoulders, his simple cotton shirt, the way the yellow of his hair caught between nape and collar.

She was going to a knew life, like she had always wanted. Tyler promised her the opera, he promised her the Winter Palace, whispering platitudes into her elegantly made hair. Even the way she maids had coiled it felt silly, like someone else's skin she had put on. It was stupid to regret anything now. She didn't regret anything.

"Missing them is alright, Caroline," Tyler said a little awkwardly, not used to being an emotional anchor. "They will be alright."

She nodded, sniffling.

He seemed to gain confidence in this task, deciding to softly palm at her hair, to push it away from her ears. "I'll show you your new home, my mother is kind, we will have our own house. Right on the banks of the Neva, would you like that?"

"I would," she whispered, feeling absurd. "You must think me so silly."

"No," he said firmly, and it felt as reverent as _Never_. She tipped back her head to look at him, his thumb traced from her ear, to her jaw, fitting so well to the curve of his palm. "Caroline, I have known women who would not flinch at the prospect of being torn from what they love, I knew them to be cold and cruel and unfeeling. Your tears let me know I have chosen right, you have a good heart."

"What person wouldn't weep to be separated from their family?"

"Not you," he decided firmly, "Petersburg will find a jewel in you, the women there are nothing like you."

She blinked the tears from her eyes, not feeling very encouraged, but she couldn't for the life of her choose to dissuade him. "Really?"

"Of course," he said, the coach rocking. She saw the gold of his eyes again, when a bolt of sunlight slipped past the glass. "I married you, didn't I?"

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><p>It should have been warning enough, hearing the gossip from servants about people from the city passing through on their way to Germany. About the rich people from Moscow, sniffling at the mud grabbing at their silk finery and bemoaning the revelry of the city against the calm and quiet warmth of the countryside.<p>

Tyler himself had practically confirmed the character of the people from there, from Petersburg, from Moscow - kings and queens who smiled with the self-important air of people too confident of their money and standing. He had been more forward than any other boy she had met, in his pursuit of her hand, short and industrious as it was with her father's blessings.

He had admitted their amorality in seeking out a wife from elsewhere, no one wanted a slattern for a wife.

She remembered a talk she'd had with her Aunt, a woman who held court over France and had an army of women in waiting for her. Charlotte Forbes who was a pincushion of petticoats and rouge, writing to Caroline about making a marriage, quick to put her word behind the Baron in a way that disturbed all for her the Baron and her Aunt had never cared to agree on anything before. The letter was levelheaded for it advised, but it also seduced a mind with rationality to things Caroline could only gasp at;

It is no matter for love, find a man who will allow you a comfortable life, settle you - love will come, and if it does not, then you are still a married woman. You may find love elsewhere, with whomever you choose, as long as you complete your duty to your husband. I only advise you to be discrete, and that any such investment you might make outside your marriage be started only after you have borne your husband a child. That would be prudent.

She had understood why her mother had hidden the letter from her, she had been scandalized and just as embarrassed.

"Investments?" She had cried, incredulous, "She tells me about the prudence of taking on a lover?"

Her mother had stuffed the letter into the fire, scowling and poking at the hot coals. Just as riled as she was, but saying nothing. Her Aunt was a proper lady, and while Caroline had known the old hag had had lovers plenty, she had always thought it was just an assumption, that her Aunt had only ever been _joking._

Caroline had folded her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. "I shan't take up any lovers, I'm not a slattern. My husband is my husband, my loyalty can only be to him! A union made under the eyes of God to so easily suggest - to suggest any of it!"

Her mother was a figure who excelled in prudence, in choosing not to take part in any discussion on the matter. Her father's own indiscretions was their family's worst kept secret, he wasn't a lesson in fidelity, he wasn't even a lesson in Christianity - to do the things he did, to forsake his own wife. The truth hung in the air, a hot bubble of shame pooling in the private space, the truths lay out bare in all their harsh inequities.

Caroline had pulled at the edges of her kerchief. Her mother's father would have seen the present circumstances with no small amount of relish, considering that Elizabeth had demanded she was in love with William Forbes and practically eloped with him - at the time he had been nothing but a glorified soldier with some noble standing, but Elizabeth's family had been grand and the marriage had been beneath them. Nonetheless, they had agreed to the match to avoid scandal and Elizabeth had been dutifully packaged out of Moscow and into the quiet countryside where there would be no loudness or social activity boisterous enough to distract from the farce their marriage was steadily crumbling into. A marriage that had essentially been born out of love, fueled by defiance, the naivety of a blue stockinged girl with too many novels and schooling in her head to think better about who her husband would become, and who in turn, he would erode her into being.

A man who neglected his wife simply because he preferred...others.

That would not be the case with her, Caroline decided quietly, she would not let any potential match of her be eroded to the point where not even the prospect of children could patch the relationship. Her father doted on her, but it was nos no secret that every good Russian man wanted a good Russian cub, a male cub. What good was she except to be married off?

Elizabeth Forbes had been blinded by her own resolution to leave Moscow, she did not miss it. She did not hate the stranger her husband had become, they lived in comfortable partnership frequented sometimes with bouts of tense accusation on both parts, but also assured in their position. Somehow they were approached equals in a way no woman and man Caroline had ever seen do before.

Elizabeth only asked for a library filled with books from everywhere, and separate bedrooms. She did not _endeavor_ to be unhappy, but she was settled, and Caroline did not want to settle. She wanted love to choke and fill to the brim, a house full of children, beautiful things to dress them in - a house full of noise and happiness. She did not want compromise for the sake of duty, she wanted love to go hand in hand with duty. Love, truly, would make any duty a compulsion born from happiness, not from something so stifling as being bound by something that was not love.

Her mother was studious, but rather indifferent to the people around her, boxed in with rationalities and logic in every decision and judgement passed. She was Minerva, a lady made from iron, with more wisdom overflowing from her to supplement any lack of love she could not outwardly show. Sometimes bitter, sometimes quietly wrathful, but too wise to lash out, to wise to condemn. She made do with what she had and did not complain so much as _warn._

Her mother had never taken lovers, but considering the layout of the country and her mother's aloofness to all, there wasn't exactly much pickings. If she was in Moscow, perhaps, considering the social buoyancy of the place, the crowds of rich and the well dressed and the beautiful. Her mother was more hermit than woman, she certainly didn't display any appetites, burying such needs (Caroline presumed) in the pages of her books. She had never looked at any other man.

Elizabeth had burnt it and they had never spoken of it again, not to each other, not even to Elena.

Caroline considered the letter when she stopped at the second inn on the way to the Imperial Capital, they had been on the rumbling wet road for two days and would be on it for one still more. Tyler had helped her out of the coach and then rushed off to see to something about the horses, trusting her in the care of a tall forbidding man she had seen in the church.

She felt embarrassed about their presence, she saw how the serfs they passed on the roads stared open mouthed at the figures sat on their horses. Caroline couldn't stop looking at them either, these regal extensions of the Imperial rule of Catherine the great. At the wedding they had seemed tall, reliable bastions of grace and eloquence - though they kept their silence very much throughout for anyone to ever prove - dark blue overcoats that hung to their knees, clad in black riding boots, looking like they'd been born into war, nobly bred for it.

Most of them were nobles, seemed handpicked by Tyler to suit his own breeding. Caroline had read the Manifesto of Freedom and understood that the army was made up majorly of those born into the peasant classes before and still after those gently born had been relieved of being required to serve in the army. She noted that there weren't any of these peasants, not any Cossacks or Hussars, none of the hard faces of the truly dutiful poor.

She didn't want to think ill of them in that aspect, that they'd picked only the nobles to combine a retinue.

She did think it silly however, that a retinue was even required. She wanted to be grateful that they'd toiled the distance to attend the wedding, and she was - she knew that it meant her husband (or at least his name) commanded respect, so it was a show of might. But a part of her wished for the company of women, had wished they'd have come with their wives. She was a soldier's daughter, but she felt ornamental, being so escorted. It was not a feeling she liked.

It had begun to rain, gray slakes of hale, the sky pissing water - streams ran icy down this man's face, like tracks down the features of a marble statue. He did not look mean, simply grim, the sky crackled up, gray paper folding and crumpling in a mutiny of clouds ripping. Mud churned around their feet, seeping uncomfortably into her pale blue shoes.

"My lady," He said, a husky baritone that was a soothing blend of dark and soft and gruff. It made her fear him a little less, when he brought his coat up over her head - she had neglected to carry her parasol, hadn't expected the weather to change so early, "Lets get you out of the cold."

He smelt like the clean flanks of a horse, of the mud slacked around his shoes and coat. They had been riding in the rain after all, instead of taking to the comfort of a coach, preferring to be on horseback rain or shine. She didn't doubt it was because soldier's had too much pride to take to a coach when a horse was easily available to ride with.

They rushed together, her trying to keep up with his long strides as she was in essence lugged along. The inside of his coat was warm, trapping them in a bubble of dryness as he held it above her, he was too tall for his head to keep hunched under it, brown hair curling around his ears and still looking strangely immaculate inspite of it. He was parchment pale, lips almost blue, with the sculpted features of one of the aristocratic ancestors in her father's portraits.

They got into the inn, his men still in the rain. She got a better look at him when he swung the coat over her - Tyler had been in such a rush he'd forgotten (_neglected_, a petty voice in her said petulantly - but she squashed it) to have given her his own coat, she did not begrudge him though. Her cold skin pinched with red as the warmth return enough of her faculties to catch a better glimpse of him.

He was a tall stately man, and he caught the innkeeper's elbow with a soft persuasive smile, his mouth wasn't what turned at the corners, but he had a peculiar way about his eyes, smiling for him. He was older than her too, give or take ten years - she wondered if he had children of his own, a wife. Her fingers tugged at the insides of his coat, he had left it on her, and her cheeks burnt. Chivalry existed most flamboyantly in men of the military, it was part of the reason women thought them so glamorous when they weren't busy fighting bloody gray wars.

The inn smelt comfortably of pines, there was a warm fire and people tipped their hats at them, stared out of the windows for the soldiers toiling in the rain.

The man shook the innkeepers hand, and came back to her. His eyes were smiling, his mouth still solemn, she didn't know which part of his face to take her cues from. "I'm sorry," she admitted, she must have looked a mess, she thanked god her hair was protected under her own bonnet lest it decide to turn into a humid mess in front of him. She was embarrassed enough at it was. "You must be so cold, you've been out for hours - I hadn't any idea the weather would be this dreadful, Tyler told me it wasn't yet the season."

She chewed on her bottom lip, glaring mournfully at her hands. It was all so extravagant and silly, they hadn't needed a retinue, they hadn't _needed_ any prestige - she wished they had come to see the wedding as guests with their own families so she could know them better than just as her glorified protectors.

She moved her arm out of the sleeve of the coat, but he stopped her. "Lady Caroline. Please."

She was unused, still, to being called that. She was frightfully angry with herself, for looking up sharply at him like a wide-eyed little girl. "Um," she cursed that, too, she hated nothing more than being inarticulate. His eyes seemed tired around the corners, indulgent though, it made her feel younger than he had any right to make her feel. "It's cold outside, you're going out, I simply thought -"

"I can make do with a little rain."

"Well, so could I. That is an argument for another time, though," just because she was a woman didn't mean she would faint at a bit of cold, he raised his brows a little at her approaching tart tone. It forced her to soften her tone though. "Seeing that I am indoors and you are returning out, you'll be needing your coat."

"I don't need it, but," he amended quickly, diplomatic. "It would comfort me to know you have it, please keep it for now, for my benefit."

_Hmph_, Caroline would have rolled her eyes, but she was a lady now. It would be ungracious of her to call him on chauvinism being disguised as chivalry. Besides, ti would be embarrassing to pursue the argument further, considering her teeth were still chattering together, the warmth had yet to take the chill of her bones, she was shivering still.

It also seemed he was genuine, that underneath that grimness was a slow crawling amusement for lighter things, a kindness that didn't have much opportunity to be used on the battlefield.

"Fine," she conceded, but didn't let him steer her into her assigned room. "I'll wait in here, by the fire."

He nodded seeing the sense in not fighting her any further, clicked his heels together and tipped his head in a curt bow.

She waited by one of the long cushions by the fire, accepting graciously a cup of tea from the innkeeper's wife - a round apple cheeked woman with delicate hands, curtsying and bobbing as if Caroline were royalty and not merely a Baron's daughter. It was embarrassing, almost. As a child she would have relished such shows, preened under the attention - but now, it felt silly, too much.

One of the horses had wounded themselves and sent a rider further behind the coach tumbling, also the coach needed a little repair work with one of the front wheels. This road was not kind, and while the horse had not been injured too badly to be out of commission the soldier in question had taken a nasty cuff to the head. Tyler came into the inn, water streaming out of his sleeves, coat shiny and slick with the runoff. He smelt of smoke, had stood outside with the man bleeding from his temples, laughing at their circumstances - the man was about her father's age, wiping blood from his hair and shaking his head into the rain to get the red off with all the habit of some huge dog. It was wet red in the mop of his pale yellow hair, and the men clapped him on the back raucously, she saw through the glass how they stood under the small awning for shelter, someone slipped a cheroot from a silvercase, Tyler lit it for him.

Smoke billowed blue through the rain, and they stood huddled in the gray with little ceremony. It alarmed her how easily the man had just shrugged off his head wound. No love lost on the road.

She peeled her husband out of his coat, and he in turn peeled her out of hers in the privacy of their room. The men would be bedding down in their own rooms, no stranger to sharing living spaces. Nobly born or not.

She towel dried his hair and asked him about the man who got hurt.

"Don't you mind him, he'll be alright," he dragged off his trousers, and she couldn't help turning away, some girlish left over sentiment. He laughed at her about that, "They're very fond of you, some of the men did observe through the windows, though, that you were arguing with Elijah."

It was posed like a question, she hoped it wasn't suspicion.

"He wanted to got out into the rain without his coat," she sniffled, "He was being awfully difficult about it."

"Well," Tyler mulled, "He's a gentleman to the end, and _you're_ difficult!"

"I am," she agreed, hotly. "He's a peculiar man, you say he outranks you?"

"Are you planning on running off with him if I say yes?" He showed her white teeth, mouth curled around a laugh.

"I am married." She said, raising her nose in the air but grinning when he pulled her into bed again. She couldn't help it. The teasing, the playing. It made her happy.

"So is he!" Tyler pulled her ear, delicately curling her into the crook of his arm. She felt her shyness melt away slowly, Caroline felt comfortable enough to pull his nose in turn, and he sneezed. "I've been slaving out there in the rain for a wife who wishes to forsake me!"

"He seems too noble a man to ever entertain running away with anyone." She wondered aloud, declaring mournfully aloud. "Or is that also a mask you men of Petersburg wear to hide that you're all just charlatans and scoundrels?"

He wrinkled his nose. Face scrunching up like a child's. She loved his warm face, constantly in animation, so boyish. He seemed offended that she'd call him a scoundrel. But he only rolled his shoulders, his skin shifting under her arm when she lay across for him, pulling slowly at his growing whiskers.

"Oh, he's noble, alright." Tyler said, wincing when she pulled a little too hard, "Too noble considering."

"What _ever_ do you mean?"

"Don't you worry your pretty head about it, princess."

"_Now_ I'm worried."

He rolled his eyes, but she smiled, leaving the topic behind. Caroline rose over him, Tyler had returned the coat back to its rightful owner already, and blew out the candle. Darkness came down in one fell swoop, a heap of warm blankets to tangle themselves in, and the music of rain pattering across the glass like the tiny paws of a small army of tiny animals. _Kittens_, she decided warmly, snug, an army of soft mewling baby kittens.

She pressed her cold feet against his bare back just to hear him hiss, and laughed so hard he had to roll her between the blankets to muffle the silly little sound.

"Woman," Tyler bemoaned. "You will be the death of me."

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><p>—<p>

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_Oh, I didn't take no shortcuts. I spent the money that I saved up_  
><em> Oh, Momma running out of luck, like my sister don't give a fuck.<br>I wanna steal your innocence. To me, my life, it just don't make sense.  
>Those strange manners, I loved 'em so; "Why won't you wear your new trench coat?"<em>

I just want to misbehave, I just want to be your slave. Oh, you ain't never had nothing I wanted, but...I want it all  
>I just can't figure out...Nothin'. And all together it went well, we made pretend we were best friends<br>Then she said, "Oh, I can wait". They ordered me to make mistakes  
>Together again, like the beginning, it all works somehow in the end.<br>The things we did, the things you hide  
>And for the record, it's between you and I<em>.<br>_

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><p><strong>end notes:<strong> i would love to hear your thoughts. also expect a lot of original pov next chapter and a helping of salvatore. the damon thing was a treat, but it was also very important as a part of the story. just saying i'm not just throwing these people out there for the lolz or anything, these characters are crucial to the plot. also, while this story is definitely klaroline, i still have to incorporate forwood because rival pairings are just juicy and seriously, it won't be much of an explosive love affair if there isn't some sort of obstacle involved i.e the sanctity caroline places in marriage versus the face that klaus may be sex but he's also most probably evil and self serving. there will be a lot of hankypanky and footsie abound, so hold tight.

also this is a period drama deal, expect roguish prince charmings, scandalous lace panties and duels at dawn or whatever it is the kids are watching these days. also, angst is fundamental. a story without angst is basically a deal-breaker. i will not disappoint, i promise. or, you know, i'll try not to. if i already have, well, uh, sorry? i'll try harder?

you don't have to be a history buff to enjoy this story or anything, so don't crack open your textbooks just yet, lord knows i'm not exactly the most historically accurate person out there - i'm just trying to set an atmosphere that makes sense. also, i love catherine the great.

thank you, all of you for your continued support. i apologize if everything seems filler-ish but it's necessary. it's not my intention, this is plot-driven but also character-driven, i want everyone to get a feel of the character and the atmosphere. so cut me some slack. warning; there is A LOT of back-story involved with everyone. so this is all very important.

also, apologies, but there is no Caroline/Elijah intended here. btw. so, don't place any bets on that. i have very specific plans in store for elijah. that sexy beast.

i would love to hear your thoughts, receive your hate mail and sex tapes alike. Simply write something in the precious little box below and i'll get back to you. i'm open to everything you want to get off your chest you wondrous, fantastically sexy people.


	4. Baby-doll, The Fratellis

**disclaimer:** i don't own russia, i don't own tvd.  
><strong>dedication:<strong> to hannah, because i miss her. and to dedicated readers, sorry it's been taking so long, but hey it is what it is.  
><strong>warning:<strong> i initially planned at least 15,000 more words for this chapter, i actually already had them written down - but the stuff was so long i've just decided to chop them down to size and serve them up in pieces. so, longer update than usual, but also more important than the ones before. the plot is gaining more momentum as we go. i've even already written a ballroom scene, and i have several passionate love/hate letters on my laptop just waiting to be published on ffnet. it's coming soon enough.  
><strong>notes:<strong> unbetaed. like, seriously, so unbetaed it's a sin. also guys, writing this fic is harder than writing anything else i've done before on this site because of the sheer amount of historical detail required for everything. i've basically been memorizing tomes and tomes of 18th century culture, so forgive me if i come off as a bit too brain-fried, or if i slip up sometimes on semantics and details (unforgivable, gasp, i know!) but still, as perfect as i know you all think i am, it hurts for me to admit that under this beautiful cultured facade i am not as infalliable as i pretend to be, okay? IT'S SO IMPORTANT TO ME TO PLEASE YOU! I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME!  
>i've tried to inject russian 18th century references into everything i've written for this story, so sorry if it comes off as too wordy or tedious, it's important for me to express the history of Russia and its cities for the story to be understood better! sorry peeps! you guys left a lot of reviews, i haven't been able to reply to all of them. thank you for all the encouragement though, and i've taken all your criticisms constructively, so, just thank you for helping me out in that! i'm trying to write as best as i can, and your veiws matter to me. someone kindly mentioned i have a lot of complex overly descriptive sentences that i should cut back on, so thanks, i realized my problem then and i've been trying to fix it best as i can, but don't be surprised if i slip out a few times (or a lot), rambling is kind of my staple for in writing. it's pretty difficult to get out of. habits, you know.<br>**even moar notes:** enjoy!

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><p>.<p>

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Don't forget your minor keys, your half lit cigarette - cause when morning comes god knows that you'll be mine.  
>So let me in; I'm ready to beg and to sing for my sins, not leave it to chance and sweet coincidence.<br>Cause that's just crazy and you know it's true.  
>Well, they said you was long gone, I just laughed and said "Alright, bring her home tonight."<br>And I heard you was graciously put on, I just laughed and said "Good night, guess it's alright."  
>Baby-doll the men who hang like flowers in the hall are asking when your love is gonna grow,<br>And who knows why the love you need will always pass you by?  
>Well, I heard it's true your love is gonna grow.<br>So let me know, cause I can stay, or honey I can go,  
>Just to wherever you tell me so, and find my place there,<br>and there I'll stay.  
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><p>One of the Commanding officer was throwing a party for his officers, it was not Niklaus's unit and he had no obligation to attend except that he was expected to; His presence was a rare-kindness to be bestowed upon Seultzman, and it was rare, as well as it was a kindness (reluctantly done) for Niklaus did not often stand on ceremony, he had little interest in empty courtesies and far less interest in tolerating the company of a unit that was not his own.<p>

The footman who took his greatcoat and gloves was surprised to see him and bowed so low his chin almost hit the floorboards. Niklaus forgot to be impatient when his friend laughed, amused. Stefan Salvatore strolled by the startled servant, fairly skipping, he was by far the most tolerable foreigner Niklaus had ever met, his bottle-green eyes gleamed as they made their way down the corridor and the raucous singing of the army men grew louder.

"Don't you suppose I'm an invader?" Stefan hummed, a decidedly wicked skew to his mouth. "The Russian regiment might find my presence offensive."

Niklaus followed calmly, he pulled off his military cap lazily almost. The days had grown short as they were prone to so late in the year, his face felt frozen from the frosty drizzle they'd emerged from. Niklaus followed calmly, he enjoyed this time of year, and he looked forward to November. His family would be present all together during the time and he would take Rebekah skating and sledding the way he'd done every year since she was twelve.

The foreigner was an unlikely friend, Stefan Salvatore had been Makhotin's second the dawn Niklaus had shot him in the head. Stefan Salvatore had thrown his head back and laughed, citing the wheat-haired noble man a bloody good shot and Klaus had liked him immediately.

The Seultzman house was perched precariously before Isaavosky, saddling the line separating the squalor of common Petersburg and the noble estates. It suited Seultzman's riff-raff sensibilities perfectly; a nobleman who gambled wildly, courted death by marrying a mad Operatta and had only his title to save him from becoming utterly destitute and penniless.

Klaus barely registered Stefan's taunting, his mind running over the state of the house since he'd seen it last. A choice few items missing, a distinct lack of a woman's touch, he didn't doubt Alaric and his wife had quarreled again. Several vases no longer stood where he had seen them last, and there was a thing film of dust over the lobby coffee tables that remained. The house had a stale, unlived smell about it, and Niklaus had observed only the footman, the servants were lesser in number.

"Since when have you cared for the feelings of others?" He asked absently, struggling not to be bored. The manor was in disrepair, he observed, the walls bare of their customary portraits. Seultzman was a gambling man and now his losses were showing. He wondered if Alaric had fallen into permanent debt, but did not think of it too long; Alaric would rather die than ask Niklaus to help him with his debts, he could be insufferably proud at times. Niklaus could respect that every once in a while.

No, it was not debt that Alaric wanted paid. Seultzman's invitation required something else. "One should always consider their welcome when walking into a gathering of soldiers."

Klaus had always worn his military uniform, he had earned his position through blood and sweat and he wore his hard-earned status close to him like his own skin. He took great pride in his ability to wage uncompromising war. His sabre remained tucked at his belt, as if it were a part of him, a limb he could not discard. His pistol he'd pinned to his sash, a subtle warning to any who dared think to toy with him; few as they were. Not all soldiers dressed so officially as he did, they preferred to strap on the uniform for work hours and when attending posh society balls where the uniform could impress a skirt or six.

Klaus had taught his regiment to believe in the clean dignity of the uniform, Stefan now held the standard to all of the Russian military, expecting them all to be armed to the teeth constantly.

"Never mind it, you're my guest and now you're Seultzman's guest as well."

"Does he love you that well?"

"He can't be bothered to argue with me. He won't raise a fuss."

Stefan observed this end to the conversation with the customary silence, he could be such a grave, stoic little fellow; but when it came to parties and good company something about the Salvatore changed utterly, made him itch beneath the skin with something the man hardly understood himself.

Klaus enjoyed Stefan's company then, so changed from his boring facade of the daytime.

Against the Salvatore's spry, good temper, this eagerness to party and drink Klaus remained leisurely paced, in no particular hurry. Sedatedly accepting this small duty. He had no particular wish to see Seultzman, but it put a bad taste in his mouth to ignore the man's invitation any longer; the Commanding Officer request for a visit was no simple party. There would be, Niklaus was sure, other matters to be discussed privately.

The Soldier Servants were crowded around a table on the large verandah when the two new guests arrived. Serious drinking was going on, red jowls and crude brawling laughter at the breeze rattling the glass doors. It was cold, the men were laughing at death-by-frost to be sitting out at this time, but it was the small braziers set around the the table that kept them from phneumonia utterly.

"Mikkelson!" A voice hailed, and the whole table in party mood noticed the other unit's Commanding Officer, roaring it along the table. They were not Niklaus's men but they cheered him enough, "Mikkelsen! Mikkelsen!"

Niklaus's mouth curled into a smile, pleased by this hurrah. The Soldier Singers in their white linen tunics stopped performing their operratta and folk songs so they could usher Salvatore and himself in, all vividly drunk, all wildly happy. Seultzman bore up from his seat like a goose, all arms and animated quacking, pulling at Niklaus and Stefan with reckless abandon. "Come, come! Let us have a drink! That dastardly rain is over for the hour, we've drink enough to warm us proper!"

"It is only six in the evening," Stefan laughed but was nonetheless manhandled into a lounge chair that did not match the rest of the furniture. It was six as Stefan said but the winter creeping into the last of legs of the year had stolen the daylight, "What say you, Klaus?"

"It would be rude to refuse Seultzman's hospitality." Klaus observed, accepting a chipped cup brimming with wine. Then to the host he threw a smile, "It seems your wife has taken all your good china."

A few of the men seemed unsure how to react at what seemed to be blatant disrespect. Alaric waved away this malice with the dismissal of a defeated drunk, not willing to be bothered by flippant comments. "Yes, yes. She'll come around soon, she loves me too much to leave me. Wild women, these Italians, I'm sure your foreign friend knows." Stefan raised his glass, keenly aware and wholly supportive of this sentiment, thumbing his temples with a roguish grin. "Speaking of more pleasant matters; I'm glad you could join us, I haven't seen you in too long, Klaus. Where were you the last few months...Tashkent, yes?"

"Not Tashkent, that was my Elijah. Worse though, I was stationed in Kherosen."

Logan Fell leapt suddenly across the conversation, nodding madly, too drunk to mind how Klaus's eyes sharpened in disgust and how his mouth curled with condescension. Second Lieutenant Fell was a man Niklaus could never find it in himself to respect, he gambled with money he did not have and was a raging sycophant. The women liked him well enough. He had one of those genial-looking pretty faces, but Niklaus thought him a disgusting, lowly little rat. "No, no, but you have been in Petersburg for the past fortnight and been awfully quiet, you should have come to us!"

His cheek twitched with the need to violently tear the mongrel's tongue out, to put him down a peg or two. Klaus had never enjoyed the Fells, they were poorly bred, given their positions in the military because of they were nobility rather than because of any true merit. One of those simpering inbred poodles parading around in their father's coats with nothing better to do than sniff at the skirts of pretty women. Logan Fell would have been worth more had he been born a woman, for he, in Klaus's opinion, was an insult every Russian man.

"I've not been in the mood to attend to such things." Klaus motioned to the table flippantly, he'd killed a man barely a fortnight ago for making eyes at his sister. He would not leap into murder, as much as he enjoyed a good fight, with scum like Fell. He didn't think the man could hit a target, let alone swing a sword properly enough to be worth Klaus's effort, to be worth the merit of being taken out and shot. "...I have been busy."

"Busy! You're sounding as dutifully boring as that older brother of yours! Where's good Elijah these days, he was back recently, but I haven't seen him at court since June!"

"He came back," Klaus allowed, voice sweet and sharp and warning, patience waning quick. "He went away again, though. To the borders."

"Oh, I do recall. A wedding, was it? It's that Lockwood boy, marrying a Baron's daughter!"

The penniless oaf gossiped far worse than a woman.

"I don't understand why though, the country nobles are incredibly dull, and he's such a boisterous little shit. I don't see how the arrangement came about."

"I did not come here to talk about Lockwood."

"I thought he'd had his eye on your sister!" Logan Fell declared, oblivious, tactless - too full of his own worth to realize he was fast becoming the most tiresome little shit that ever lived - Niklaus's hand tightened dangerously around his cup. "Anyway, we'll ask him when he arrives. My cousin was with him, you know, part of the honorary retinue - they should arrive in Peters by midnight. Perhaps Lockwood might even stop by for a drink."

Klaus put an elbow on the table, leaning forward with every intention of calmly seizing the oaf by the throat but Alaric, drunk as he was, slipped seamlessly back to bring the situation to order, mentioning light-heartedly; "I don't blame him, she's a beautiful girl. She's wasted on that oaf."

Klaus didn't smile, annoyed with Seultzman saving the presumptuous Fell. He returned only with a jibe; let Alaric glimpse his incisors in a pithy knowing grin. He knew what had been done, and Logan Fell could only be rescued by his Commanding Officer so many times. "Speaking of worth; Your wife is a charming little thing wasted on your ugly face and your foul manners."

Alaric scoffed, a bark of dismissal. "She loved this face well enough when she married me for my title, but all's fair I suppose, since I married her for her money." Laughter went up around the table, soldiers raising their mismatched silverware with cries of wild humor tinged with sympathy. The men loved their leader, defended him, laughed at him; Klaus felt , very briefly, the familiar twinge of envy in his gut, it felt like someone had thrown a lit match at his insides. Stefan had deserted their side of the table and gone to engage in drinking games at the other end.

Alaric admitted his character so shamelessly and Klaus told himself to remember why he didn't hate Alaric half as much as he hated everyone else, it was because Seultzman was unabashedly honest about his depravity, obnoxious at times, but good company.

The singing went up again, loud, essentially drowning their conversation from the rest. A cheery folk song struck up, and Alarci slung an arm around his second lieutenant's shoulders. "Fell, I'd advise you not to talk of Mikkelsen's sister so. Her brother is a volatile man and you wouldn't be the second second lieutenant to have their career destroyed by him. I've seen him look at my wife in an alarmingly suggestive manner very many times before but never dared challenged him to a duel; better cuckolded than dead."

Fell pouted, understanding somehow that he was being dismissed. Klaus watched him scurry to the other side of the room, tiresome little shit.

"I despise your wife as you well know." Klaus muttered irritably, thankful for some semblance of privacy. Alaric's smile broadened as if the caustic golden-haired noble man had served him a great amusing jape he found personally-pleasing. Seultzman had been telling a fib, Niklaus had never had any interest in his Operratta wife and her temperamental nature, and Seultzman, as flippant and devil-may-care as he seemed would have killed the first man who dared think to cuckold him.

"You despise everyone, and you're frightening, so you are interesting. Because you frighten everyone and interest all, you are tolerated. Come," Alaric rose to his feet, steadier than Klaus had supposed him able to with all the alcohol he had consumed. "I've just the thing for your ever-foul mood, do you enjoy cheroots much, Niklaus?"

The formal use of his name pulled at Klaus with a sharp, entirely unwelcome tug. It changed the nature of the exchange, called him calmly, quietly to attention. He frowned, grave, mistrustful. Alaric's business tone commanded him the way his father would. Niklaus's frown deepened, he watched the arm gesturing comradely to the inside of the house. Mikael was dead.

Stefan's sudden jubilant cry at winning a turn at a drinking game at the other end of the table woke him at once, broke him out of the bitter catharsis of thought. Alaric curled and uncurled his calloused hand, inviting patiently, and Klaus schooled the hostility from his features, annoyed with himself for letting the feeling overcome him to the extent where it showed for all to see. He shifted slowly to his feet, he had no enemies here. Stefan was having far too much fun to notice his departure from the general company, the raucous shouting swallowed with them their leave and Alaric and Klaus left in their own pocket of understood silence.

"I've got a wonderful tobacco from the east, very bitter, yet pleasant. You'll enjoy it." Alaric mentioned, quietly shutting the veranda door behind them, motioning grandly towards his study in a manner Klaus found particularly mocking.

"Let's hope our parts of empty conversation are over already," he warned, quiet and in no mood for avoiding what was at hand. "Somethings amiss, Seultzman and you will tell me exactly what it is."

* * *

><p>St. Petersburg was drowning, water sloshed down the bricks making muddy whorls in the road. It was a blur outside of Caroline's window, the frosted glass made the great spires outside seem like pencils, an abstract darkly drawn. Caroline wiped at the mist with her glove so she could look at it better, peering at the buildings with anxious blue eyes. She could barely see anything for all the rain!<p>

From the distance she had touched on it only with her eyes, unable to see much but for a hazy horizon with the wavering shapes of buildings that looked drawn by a child's hand.

Her husband leant forward so he could pull her fingers away from the glass, Tyler smiled as he began peeling off her glove and she let him do so with a distracted smile of her own. She'd almost forgotten he was there, he'd been keeping himself very quiet. It was unlike him (she had begun to learn from the moment they had met) to keep such grave silences. He was normally so boisterous, so full of uncontainable cheer.

He lent her the heat of his own hands, gently scolding her. "Your skin is as cold as the glass."

She hmmed, turning her head this way and that, as if the angle at which she held her head would better let her eyes pierce the rain. "I can't see it!" she wanted to moan, but petulance was for children. Caroline gave up her fruitless endeavors and decided to grace him with her attention, smiling kindly at him when he raised her knuckles to his mouth, lips brushing against her skin when he spoke quietly. "We're to see my mother first before we retire to our own home, she enjoys to tease everyone. Don't be alarmed."

_She's your mother_, she thought smiling contentedly, thinking him so very silly to be worried, _however could I be alarmed by her?_

It seemed to have troubled him a moment before he took her smile as wordless acceptance, Tyler relinquished her hand and sat back straighter, his smile brimmed with a sort of satisfaction. It should have alarmed her how easily obeying him seemed to come to her, she who had always misbehaved as a child, been adamant and stubborn and so full of questions did not question him even once, did not demand him to explain himself to her. Simply nodded and understood.

And why should she do any less? They were married, they belonged to each other - an obedient wife was a dutiful wife. It would be her duty to get on splendidly with his mother so that they may become closer.

Caroline wondered what Lady Lockwood was like and she found it likely (seeing that the son she had raised was always so full of good humor) that she would be the same as her son in temperament. Lively, perhaps with the same grin. Or perhaps she was fond of him, but exasperated with him as well, in that manner women often were with wayward children. Perhaps she would be kind, but rightfully wary as any mother who loved their son must be upon first meeting the new wife. Caroline resolved to get on so well with her as to secure the woman's respect and blessings for their marriage.

Lady Lockwood had not attended the wedding, it had looked unseemly for the mother of the groom not even to be present. Caroline had been momentarily disheartened when she was told through letter not to expect her, she had felt the woman's absence keenly, this woman she had never met, she had wanted her to be there, to _know_ her. Tyler had simply mentioned that his mother was aged now, that her delicate condition could not stand the trip nor the rain. It was a brief explanation, given in passing, but subtly implying that the matter would be discussed no further.

She wondered then if his mother was embarrassed of her son, or the union between her son and a country noble. Perhaps maybe she was one of those cold unfeeling ladies who cared little for their spawn, or maybe – she realized her imagination was growing wild – maybe she did not approve of Tyler himself.

Caroline did not see in him any true flaws, he was frank and direct in his pursuit of her, had not even glanced at Elena. He was no unruly gambler or drinker. In fact Tyler had been perfectly courteous, she dismissed her suspicions.

Her own husband had not seemed to miss his mother at the wedding, it occurred to Caroline that there might be a chance...Well, no! Surely, _perhaps...?_ There could be a chance that Tyler was _embarrassed_ of his mother. Caroline knew the confident way men held themselves, her father's friends always visited as if they strolled right out of the army barracks. It was in the shoulders, in the eyes. Tyler's smile was satisfied, his shoulders pinned his body up against the cushioned seat, lazy enough to suggest this same confidence but his eyes had studied the window with a certain unease.

Why was he so uneasy? It worried her, but she batted away her thoughts in a blink, she didn't know anything yet. She'd hardly met anyone from Petersburg to even imagine how they lived. Lady Lockwood was sure to be kind enough, assumptions would serve Caroline little.

As to the lady not attending because of disapproving of the union? It didn't seem likely, given the blood red rubies Lady Lockwood had sent as a wedding present for the bride, set in white gold and so beautiful it was blinding. Her mother-in-law, Caroline thought, seemed like a benevolent woman who would not treat her like an invader but rather as a daughter.

Never mind the paranoia, making any judgments on bare assumptions would serve no one, Caroline decided levelly. She would only have to meet Lady Lockwood to see what their future might be.

The men would see them to the Lockwood home and then depart. The married couple would make their visit and promptly go to their new home alone.

The prospect excited her, it seemed like she was starting out a new life. Here she could put her skills to use, her distinct knack for organization and her hatred of chaos would become the tools with which she would manage her household. She would have to see the maids, and talk to the kitchen staff - see to the coach man and the maintenance of the gardens, Tyler did say there was a small lawn, (_only a small one mind!_), nonetheless Caroline knew it would be enough, she already knew it would be _perfect._

Her mother would have scoffed at her optimism, but her mother was not here. Caroline was decided that this was her life, she would not let it be tainted by the ominous bitterly practical predictions of her mother. She would not let that her life be reflected onto by that unhappy marriage. True, Caroline had married her husband with no great love, but mutual respect and trust would ensure their happiness.

The death of desire, she thought a triumphant scoff building in her chest, she did not think they would ever have that problem. Tyler was a fine specimen, being in his bed would soon stop feeling too strange, she was sure. Her color rose, still remembering the warmth of his mouth on the back of her hand and surprised that such a little thing could affect her so when she had presumed lying with him would make her less shy. Caroline's gaze fell to the window again, telling herself to stop blushing like such a maid. It had been pleasant to be in his arms, Tyler had such an easy, encouraging manner she knew she would soon grow used to the act itself. What Caroline lacked in experience she made up for in ardent enthusiasm and she now thought that she might grow to love him sooner than she expected to, and knew she could make him love her soon enough as well.

He was a soldier and she was the daughter of a soldier, they understood each other in that she understood his duty to his country (that he would be gone for weeks or months whenever he was called for it) and likewise he understood her place (that she would loyally remain behind to keep the home in good condition, to raise their children, and to patiently wait for him for whenever he should return). She would have the freedom of self-determination when it came to the household, and he would have the comfort of returning to a home that loved him.

Soldiers, Caroline thought, _this is a soldier's city too_; built by hard hands and weary hearts; beginning as mere dwelling houses, then soon churches and piers made by mere soldiers and war captives, local residents from nearby villages and convicts sent to contribute to its large-scale construction site instead of Siberia. Something so new and fresh, born from the blood and tears of the Northern war, it sprouted on the banks of the Neva; such an unusual city, build by hard hands, not by artisans or poets or musicians, but soldiers and fighters like her father - a city that had no parallel either in Russia or in Western Europe. A city that overshadowed even old Moscow.

It was like living in the pages of a history book, this soldier's city had been ravaged by great fires twice and yet here it stood still, a testament to Russian persistence. Harsh as the rock castles built on the edge of the sea, smoking husks enduring the ravages of time. Its hard appearance was soon softened by the efforts of Francesco Rastrelli, turning - not quite unlike the way a jewel smith polishes and embellishes a diamond out of dirt - St Petersburg into a splendid city of luxurious palaces designed in the whimsical Baroque style the royalty of Russia loved so much. This style perfectly-accorded with the capricious character of the Empress and served as a beautiful setting for her resplendent life that was reminiscent of an eternal festival.

Rastrelli's greatest creation was the Winter Palace, a magnificent royal residence on the bank of the Neva.

Tyler made visits to the Winter Palace on a Sunday each month to attend the court of the Empress. Caroline had heard it was the most beautiful building in the world. She herself had only ever seen paintings and renderings of the Empress in books. There was a great big portrait of the woman behind her father's study - she had been the one to formalize him as a baron, after all – every time Caroline was called into that office to be scolded the Empresses' benevolent grey eyes would look down at her, mouth held lightly in a mysterious sphinx's smile. To see her in the flesh would be like standing before the feet of God.

Perhaps he would take her to see for herself, Tyler had said vaguely, not quite promising.

Caroline didn't think herself worthy of even attending on someone so...so...well, she was an Empress, and Caroline was merely Caroline.

It was one thing to be the daughter of a baron, and another thing entirely to be in the company of a Queen.

The carriage carried them into the heart of St. Petersburg and the rain held up a little, grew less insistent so that she could soon make out the taller buildings, their colorful spires brimmed in construction boards. St. Petersburg was constantly growing, and constantly molding itself to suit the fashion of the times. It was Catherine's golden age, and proudly it stood, she wondered how beautiful it would look in the sharp whites of winter...

She wondered how her mother could have ever had the heart to part from such a cold, beautiful place. Her mother would speak disdainfully of the she would be forced to leave Moscow for every season, her grandmother would parade Elizabeth like a prize, trying to sell her daughter off to prospective suitors.

Elizabeth had never spoken of Petersburg as having any redeeming quality except for the Imperial library housed in the west wing of Kunstkamera, the old Tsar's museum that displayed all the books in the world, books so old they turned to dust if not handled with the most delicate of hands. Her mother had spread her palms as if she was caressing the memory still, of books that were guarded and studied by those who devoted their lives to them.

Not only books, but the Imperial library also displayed _curiosities; _Precious fossils, herbaria with plants from the New World, and of course, the Tsar's collection of monsters. Glass jars holding malformed fetuses and rooms of deformed corpses of animals and humans alike.

It sounded terrible, but her mother had shaken her head at Caroline. Explaining simply in that succintly reasonable way of hers; "The Tsar was a true man, he did not believe in superstition. He believed in the variety of life, that these are all things made by God." She scooped Caroline up in her arms, and tenderly pushed her hair back. She had been a child then, but her mother had always spoken to her like they were equals in spirit. "There's no such thing as the evil eye, there's no such thing as a curse. There is only God, and even the ugliest things are from him, not from evil. There is, the Tsar believed, no such thing as the devil, no such thing as evil, everything has been ordained by God. Everything has its purpose to serve. And why should we fear these things we call monstrous as evil, when they are of God? Do you understand, Caroline?"

"Have you ever been?"

"It's the most beautiful place in the world; I loved to go, though my friends were too afraid."

"They weren't brave like you?"

"I wasn't brave, there was simply nothing to fear that I saw."

"Don't you miss it?"

Her mother had not responded except to tuck her daughter back into bed.

September brought St. Peterburg into a chill, a mild one at that - compared to what it would be like by the beginning of Winter. Caroline drew back into the present when the carriage rattled, wheels stuttering onto the ridged planks of the Isaavosky pontoon bridge over the river which would be replaced by the hard ice of the river once winter settled. She'd heard the ice would get as thick and hard as stone, that parties could be held on it without fear of having it crack, even. It sounded fantastical, something out of a dream, to hold a ball on ice! To move silkily across it, to dance. Caroline would not believe it until she saw it with her own eyes.

They were going into the heart of the noble neighborhood, Empress Elizabeth (may god rest her soul) had had her palace here first before. Older than the Winter Palace. Noble families had settled prudently nearby. The Lockwood Estate was within.

While she did not think Petersburg an impoverished squalor, there was a marked difference between the area after the bridge and the air before it. The outskirts had seemed blurry, buildings leaning, tired and old, like grand retired cavalry men hobbled on their canes. But here within suddenly there were courtyards of green and tall spired churches. They passed an estate painted in royal purples and blues. In the Neo-classic style, throwing off the baroque architecture of old and assuming a more European grace. The East becoming West before her very eyes.

Tyler pointed to her the opera house, promising her a show. Gaudy posters stretched from its walls, colorful letters proclaiming a performance of Antigone. He rolled his eyes, mentioned that it was always such a boring work, but they would go if she liked. He had no great love for Greek tragedy, but the Petersburg society had suddenly gone wild for Greek tragedy. Apparently some Frenchman had complimented the genre in passing and Catherine's sycophants had leapt upon the association to France with all their characteristically sickening enthusiasm.

She was surprised by the sardonic way he spoke of them, of Russian pandering to the French taste. It was the first time she had ever heard him speak bitterly of anything. She was not aware that his character allowed him to dislike anything, he seemed to get on so well with everyone...

Before they got to their estate Tyler unlatched the hackney carriage's window, one of the comrades trotted closer on his horse, tipping his hat to their company. It was Elijah, and Caroline could not help smiling at him. She wondered what Tyler had meant the other night, saying such things about him.

They murmured to each other, Caroline couldn't catch it over the patter of rain. She was worried momentarily that the cavalry men would catch their death of cold, Elijah was so very pale, but his face betrayed nothing, he looked completely at ease with water brimming off his cap.

With their conversation at an end Elijah led his horse ahead of the carriage, barking back at their men, with a grace that seemed almost synchronized their retinue departed, riding ahead and away. Their company at an end. They would not impose on Carol Lockwood, considering they were more than ten in number.

They turned into the Lockwood estate, and Tyler began fidgeting with the cuff's of his coat, mouth thinning when the black gates swung open to reveal the sprawling home. It stretched for a few acres, it seemed, greek pillars held up the front, a fountain carved from marble as the centerpiece to a remarkably green lawn.

High windows and four stories of soft-rose coloured stone. Caroline tried not to gape, it seemed awfully cavernous for a home when she realized it housed only one widowed woman. She was shaking a little when the door was drawn open, a stray finger of cold whispering across the muddied hem of her dress. Tyler leapt out before she could speak a word, waving the servant away so he could retrieve his wife from the carriage himself.

The smile on his face seemed fixed, tight. She curled her fingers tight around his hand, kept it in her possession even as they entered the building, she felt oddly that she needed to comfort him against something he hardly knew he was uncomfortable about.

The doors shut behind them, and for a moment Caroline felt trapped. Blue tiles composed the floor, and a fresco of flowers on either wall of the small enclosing lobby, the air felt heavy with expensive musk that itched at the back of her throat. A stairwell stretched up, curling inwards like a marble tongue when the lady appeared.

She descended the stairs seeming to float, her smile was a wide, charming thing. Her eyes lit up when they landed on them and she offered her hand grandly to her son once she touched the bottom of the stair, he bowed over it, kissed it in a motion that was formal and well-practiced.

Her glance fell on Caroline with all the quickness of a hawk, rooting out this morsel of a girl. A smile spread wide across her face, Caroline pulled her shrug closer to her skin, that look almost had her fleeing. "My dear, aren't you a lovely little thing."

Am I?

Tyler looked a little amused if not annoyed by the way his mother easily maneuvered herself around them, prowling sedately around his wife in nothing but a fine bed gown and a sheer night coat. Caroline realized, with shock, that Tyler's mother smelt a little like the hard liquor the servants loved back home, and that she was, perhaps, slightly tipsy.

She was being inspected, measured. Tyler stood idly by, letting her wade through the situation by herself.

And then Carol Lockwood smiled, white and sharp. She had wolf's teeth. "They're going to eat you up."

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

Well they said you was burned out I just laughed and said "Come on, she's not burned, she's just gone."  
>And it took me too long till I found out faces that you know the best, oh well, I guess.<br>And they laughed when you said you was leaving, everybody knows you well except for me, can't you tell?  
>And you watched from the wings of the late show roses,<br>By your feet of red; All for me you said.  
>Baby-doll.<br>.

.

.

* * *

><p><strong>end notes: <strong>hey, if you absolutely despise this story you might find it easier to read my other pieces, or you know, not read them, if that's what you want. free world, the options are there to use or dismiss. and yup, i TOTALLY changed last names to sound more russians. 'seultzman' is, you got it; 'saltsman' duh. 'mikaelson' is 'mikkelsen', and omg, i have the hugest boner for mads mikkelsen, just. like. i want to tie him down and lick his mouth open. i just. i can't can. just leave me to die. hope this chapter wasn't too tedious, or you know, whatever. throw rocks at my house, flame me endlessly, anything goes, feedback accepted. let me sleep forever. good night. yeah.


	5. Calm like you, The Last Shadow Puppets

**disclaimer:** still own nothing.  
><strong>dedication:<strong> i'm kind of incorrigible when it comes to updating.  
><strong>warning:<strong> ...i'm still kind of trying to swallow my guilt for taking so long to update, and hoping nothing i've written is too dissapointing. but it's unbetad, so go forth at your own risk. i have no respect for grammar or spelling, whenever i think of it i hang my head in shame.  
><strong>notes: <strong>guys, i don't know. I DON'T KNOW**.**  
><strong>even moar notes:<strong> drops chapter update, FLEES.

(ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH FFNET DEVOURING MY LINE-BREAKS. WTF FFNET. half the reason this took so long is FFNET'S FAULT. SO YOU CAN SEND ALL YOUR NEGATIVE KARMA THERE OKAY. THE GUILT IS EATING ME.)

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_I can still remember when your city smelt exciting.  
>I still get a whiff of that aroma now and then. Burglary and fireworks,<em>  
><em>the skies they were alighting. Accidents and toffee drops, and thinking on the train<em>  
><em>Oh, he was young, in the frost, no regard for the cost, of saying his feelings.<br>In the moment they were felt, and if he was calm like you, locked up inside of your loops,_  
><em>then he'd know for well that all he had to say was -<em>  
><em>All he had to say was goodbye.<em>

_._

_._

_._

* * *

><p>The moment they arrived home Caroline felt ready to collapse, her visit to her mother-in-law's had been tense, every word the older woman had said had felt subtly belittling without being so direct. Caroline had dealt with enough of her own Aunties with their haughty directly condescending airs that she felt she more or less could take Lady Lockwood's flippant disdain in stride.<p>

She had smiled through the conversation all along, kept her noh mask on, kept her patience, and her quiet, calmly. She might have been a country bumpkin, but she was a Baron's daughter too, a lady, and no amount of pithy remarks about what a pretty little thing she was would make her flinch, or otherwise feel less than she was.

Caroline would have said a few choice words of her own, but she thought it prudent to avoid insulting her mother-in-law so early into her marriage.

Lady Lockwood did not so much insult Caroline as to simply press that she was stepping into the world that was not her own, that she was a foreigner. She kept referring to her son's wife as pretty, darling, nice – like she was a bauble Tyler had picked up on one of his journeys, brought back to her to admire but inevitably forget. She dealt with the newlyweds with a distracted air, sometimes blatantly dismissing Caroline in parts of the conversation and teasing her son about regiment parties, and how Peters had missed him so.

She apologized in passing of her absence at the wedding, and Caroline took the chance to thank her kindly for the rubies. Lady Lockwood had smiled then, her mouth rose red and her eyes wry. "Well, it belonged to all the Lady Lockwoods, and I suppose you're Lady Lockwood now, aren't you?"

"Yes," Caroline had answered, somewhat stunned by this frankness, this smirking mouth. "…I suppose I am."

Tyler had borne the two women with a tight smile, and then at that moment, thankfully reminded his mother that they needed to get back to his own home. Caroline had nodded, stood gracefully to her feet, unruffled and smoothly taken the arm he offered.

Her husband pulled her out of her coat, Caroline huffed, the drizzle had ended but the cold outside still beat at her skin. The coach to their new home had held an ill boding quiet, Caroline had kept her silence regally, afraid of what she might say if she be allowed to vent about how audacious his mother was – how she flirted just at the edge of discourtesy. Tyler did not probe it, did not ask what she thought, only looked back at the window.

She had expected a mother-in-law who would tease about grandchildren, who would smile fondly – not an aged widow with a penchant for drink and conversation utterly empty of sincerity or warmth.

It wounded her, more than she ever expected such a thing to.

She was distracted however, by the house. As soon as Tyler had helped her with her coat she noticed his servants lining the hall, eyeing her with apprehension, surely wondering what this new bride would turn out to be. Steel stiffened her spine and she pushed the windswept strands of hair from her cold cheeks, observing them the way they observed her. It would not do to appear frazzled, first impressions were the ones that held most weight. She kept her expression neutral, but not cold, nodded at them.

They were seven in number. Tyler stood a little behind her, a tiny girl had darted up to take both their coats from him. Caroline could feel his low smile, one part mocking, but one part fond amusement of it.

She was in her element now, where she could direct and organize to her own standards of quality. He was pleased to see her this way.

They were all older, with the exception of the serf girl. A cook, two men in servant's livery, a stable boy, two matronly looking women she assumed would be required to assist her and a woman with graying hair assigned to the cleaning. They recognized her authotiry, their brazen curiosity from before vanished, she saw eyes fall downcast and she asked them each their names.

She repeated the names back to them, already familiar. She'd always had a sharp mind from memorizing the maps in the Baron's study and reciting pretty poetry, if she'd been born a boy, her father had often said, she might have risen to Cavalry officer, she might have ruled them all.

Caroline's satisfaction with them soured lightly when Tyler kissed the curve of her cheek, a pleased congratulatory peck, like she was a puppy that had performed an unexpected trick.

It was a high ceiling-ed house with beautiful white tiles, rose-colored walls and tall elegant windows framed in heavy burgundy curtains with rich golden tassles. The windows that extended from floor to ceiling, the house was a little bare in the furnishings, but that was to be expected of a home where a man had lived alone; she could correct that easily enough. There were eleven rooms in all.

Her husband had thoughtfully bought the ornate mahogany furniture, the ottoman and the armchairs, the exquisite baroque painting in the parlor, and Caroline was pleased, but recognized too that for now the only thing that belonged to her were the trunks she'd brought with her.

He led her to the dining room and the Cook – an old brown prune with one milky eye – served them a light meal of bread and kvass. The table was a long affair, held up by legs carved to resemble lions feet, clawed and strong. It was so dark Caroline's reflection gleamed back at her in the varnish.

Her husband sat at the head of the table, and she at his right. It was a place meant to sit sixteen and she wondered very briefly if he threw soldier's parties of his own here.

"Caroline," he bid, breaking their long distracted silence ever since he'd kissed her. His spoon chimed against his plate, he pushed it aside and sat back in his seat. Barrel chest broad and chin raised, she knew the look, it was the look men sported when they were ready to set down the law for their women. Caroline felt cowed suddenly, like she had been behaving gracelessly, been surly for no reason at all, and he had noticed. She flushed and plastered on an accommodating smile. His nails rattled a tandem on the surface of the table. "Are you settled? Do you like it?"

"Very much," she said.

He nodded to himself, "I'm grateful for that. It's a good house, I know you see that it lacks a feminine touch, you're right. I don't think I need to tell you to feel free to decide anything about it. I will provide as best as I can."

She forgot completely to be petulant with him for his flippant mother. "Are you tired, Tyler? Perhaps we can –"

"No," he shook his head firmly, but then attempted to soften the blow with a homey grin. "I'm afraid I've work to do."

"It's very late," she said, not expecting the refusal at all, and expecting least of all such a reason. "You can attend to your papers in your study tomorrow."

"It is not papers. I only have to see my Commanding Officer."

"Isn't he asleep at this hour?"

"No, he isn't," and he smiled, but it was not for her, there was a humor he found in what she had said that she did not understand. "I have to report to him, it's terribly rude not to see him immediately."

"But you're married," She cried, huffing, he was already rising though, stroking her cheek and kissing her talkative mouth. "You're newly wed, surely this gives you some respite? Tyler, this is ridiculous. You should rest –"

"You're an attentive woman, and I love you for it, but it can't be helped." He kissed her again, and she pulled at his collar. He laughed against her mouth, she could feel it rumble through her, pressed so closely against his chest. He _laughed_, would not be seduced into staying, her cheeks heated up – she was utterly transparent to him. "Good night, don't wait for me."

And he left, simple as that.

* * *

><p>"You don't defend him, you don't say he isn't dangerous."<p>

"I won't pretend he isn't harmless."

"Well," Alaric said, affronted into sobriety. "If he's anything like his brother…is he anything like his brother?"

"He doesn't speak about his brother. Is that why you didn't mind I brought him with me, you wanted to see?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Alaric threw his arms about in pantomime despair, "What must I do? I despise theatrics, I've no patience for them, you know that! Should I challenge the prancing pretty boy, take him out to be shot? I'm old now, I don't like waking up at dawn for murder, it's Russia, it's too bloody cold."

"Isn't this a conversation you should be having with your second lieutenant?"

"Fell is a little shit."

"Young, then?"

"I'm still deciding if I should bother at all." Alaric grated, he paced his study, restless. "Who even duels anymore? As for my wife, I've never had this problem before. She always teases that she'll fall into another man's arms, but she never follows through. It seems that she might now, considering we've had a falling out again, it seems she might want to provoke me. The woman is insufferable, but she's my wife. All the men in Peters would never lay a hand on her, but he's a foreigner so he doesn't have sense enough to be afraid of me."

Niklaus snorted, watching the old man pace the room like an agitated bull was entertaining. Alaric, though physically imposing had the sort of easiness of character that suggested he was a husband content to look the other way. He was always jovial, always making conversation with everyone no matter their class. He could see why Damon Salvatore thought Isabel's husband would look the other way while he courted her, but considering that Damon Salvatore was rolling in the sheets of all sort of female company Klaus did not think the foreigner cared whether their husbands glared at him or not.

Damon, while pretty as pouting narcissus, did not seem physically intimidating. Klaus was sure that if he had even had any military training in Italy it was meager, and it was so long ago that he doubted Damon Salvatore had a fighting chance against a true Russian military man. But, then again, someone who went around courting married women must be used enough to duels to have learnt to be adept at using a firearm. Niklaus, though naturally scornful of court gossip tried to remember if he'd ever heard of the Salvatore getting in a fight.

"Insolent squab the boy might be, but if I do not make at least a gesture of violence towards him I'll lose face in front of the men. They haven't heard about it yet, but in Peters it's only a matter of time before they do."

"Well then, make your gesture. You know how cowardly Italians are, it'll take little than a threat to get him to tuck his tail between his legs and run off for someone else's wife."

"Oh, you're right, aren't you? It makes me so…so mad! He's young – you young always think yourselves so entitled!" Alaric thumped his fist against a palm, his eyes blazing, body trembling as his pride rioted with his rationality. "I should make a gesture, but I'd very much rather follow through completely. I'd much rather kill him."

"Just a moment ago you – "

"Yes, yes! I know! I'd like to kill him, I just don't want theatrics."

"Slit his throat while he sleeps, then." Niklaus suggested sensibly.

"I would, I don't pretend to be an honorable man but that's…that's just _dirty_, Mikkelsen."

"Not unheard of."

"No throat-slitting! I'll take him out to be shot, and you will – "

A loud rap came on the door.

Alaric halted in his wild gesticulations. They exchanged weighty looks, Niklaus raised a brow, his mouth turning impish, no doubt enjoying the interruption to this frenzied pacing about Seultzman was doing. The men though knew better than to interrupt their commanding officer when he took a guest into his study lest they interrupt some important conversation.

Alaric glared at him, knowing exactly Niklaus's feelings on the intruder.

He marched over to the door. Niklaus watched him from his comfortable perch on the windowsill, cheroot cradled between his fingers, his eyes bright blue and curious.

Alaric threw open the door, exasperated. "What is it now – "

"Captain," the sound of boots clicking sharply together drew Niklaus's eyes again, he knew that voice. It was hesitant, the sound of query. His mood instantly soured.

Alaric looked surprised, he recovered with a broad smile. Always too stupid, always so friendly. "Lockwood! How wonderful to see you. Congratulations, by the way."

The young man walked into the room, the brim of his cap was stiff from the icy drizzle he'd no doubt braved to come here. He did not sigh pleasurably at being greeted by the warmth of the room, not when face with the cool look of his own Commanding Officer.

Tyler Lockwood drew up again, saluted sharply. His face, though, was white, and he didn't dare look Niklaus too closely in the eyes.

Niklaus did not adjust even an iota of his posture, lounged loosely against the window frame. Smoke coiled up in lazy tongues, he regarded Tyler patiently, like he would his own disobedient child. He let Tyler hold the salute for a long time, watched the boy grow steadily more and more uneasy. Brave thing, nothing betrayed his trepidation except to how stiffly he held his body, how he could not look his own Commanding Officer in the eye and face Niklaus's disgust full on.

Alaric waited, eyes flickering between them. Openly curious. The man could be worse than a woman in his unceasing interest when it came to scandal.

After an adequate amount of time passed Niklaus gave the boy a single nod.

Tyler dropped his arm, an exhale trembled through him. He looked like he'd narrowly escaped a bullet. He'd been afraid Niklaus would snub him. He'd been afraid his Commanding Officer would make good on his threat to see him dead. Yet, here he was, crawling back like one of Niklaus's dogs. Waiting to be acknowledged.

Niklaus summoned up a smile, broad, but his own eyes sparked cold. "Congratulations are in order."

"Thank you," Tyler crushed his hat beneath his arm, he glanced back up at Niklaus quickly, hesitantly. Perhaps he had been forgiven? "I came back as soon as I could get away, I've missed the regiment."

Niklaus's mirth was part derision, though he made sure not to seem too blatant with it. Half the fun was torturing the boy with hope that he might be able to be appeased. He could see that little brain whirring ceaselessly behind those amber eyes, that handsome face so meek. "Your wife waits for you in the country?"

"I brought her back to Peters with me." And slowly, he could see the confidence return to this young buffoon's features. A tentative happiness, hoping that his marriage would please Niklaus, that this marriage might have shown Niklaus that he would not be so reckless in future.

Niklaus brought the cheroot back to his mouth, drew a lungful of smoke. "Charming?"

"In future we'll all be introduced so you might see for yourself."

Tyler was grinning now, earnest. He was _proud_ of himself. They did say that marriage left a soldier's arms free to climb the ladder, and that he'd found himself a pretty simpleton of a specimen for a wife tied everything off very nicely.

"Perhaps we might." Niklaus said dismissively, the way he always did when talking about trivial matters, but not meanly. All the men knew when Niklaus meant to be mean, "Go see the men, have a drink. They've been talking about you all night."

Tyler stood a little straighter, a little more like himself. He nodded, exchanged some bawdy jokes with Alaric (the degenerate) and then excused himself.

Once the door shut behind Lockwood, Alaric turned to him with a curious expression Niklaus could hardly place before it dissolved beneath a weary sigh. "You've put him in his place, have you?" He drawled, strolling back across the carpet and behind the desk.

"He's an ambitious buffoon," Niklaus observed, without heat. He crushed the cheroot in the ashtray that Alaric had suddenly, and deftly sat by him. "I've done him a favour."

"He was so loyal to you too. Have you forgiven him?"

"If he was as loyal as you thought him he would not have crossed me," Niklaus said simply, shortly. Not interested in discussing the matter further.

Alaric didn't press, only looked at him, watched him as he would a firecracker held too close to an open flame.

Niklaus summoned up a mean grin, his eyes laughing at how wary people could suddenly remember to be of him. There was good reason for it, he leaned forward, handing Seultzman back his ashtray, his tone light with mischief. "Now, tell me more about what you plan to do with Salvatore."

* * *

><p>She was to be introduced to society as quickly as could be, Carol Lockwood for all her airs began the preparations with haste. She would see to it that her daughter-in-law fit seamlessly to the everyday going-ons of Petersburg's finest. Her son might have married a country-noble but his wife was one of them now and would have to be taught accordingly to move into the circles that suited his high class, the parties in the country and the company were mere affairs compared to the grand hassle of so many players in the Empress's dance hall. Caroline would brush shoulders with Duchesses and she would have to learn to dress the part – none of this meek housewife drabness or milk-maid simpleness, there would need to be pearls on her dress, rubies, dipping collars and skirts to make even the Queen's ladies weep with envy.<p>

Caroline was sweet in manner and had a kindness of character that was appalling to her mother-in-law. It was all well and good to be kind, but it was a terrible burden to continue so in a world that thrived on rumour, intrigue and whose players competed constantly to beat each other in whatever petty societal way they could.

She dressed well, prettily. Everything she was was pretty but she could stand to be very beautiful, Carol guessed, if she dressed a little less conservatively and thusly a little more to the recent fashions. Carol had seen older women show more skin than her daughter-in-law dared.

These were all the torrid details delivered to Katerina's lap when she called on the Lady Lockwood herself. She had visited more out of curiosity rather than out of any sort of fondness for the old trollop, it was always good to be informed of new blood, being constantly in the know was only one of the many reasons people gravitated towards Katerina like sheep to a shepherd.

She lowered the pretty blue cup, and raised her eyes to the woman perched on the other end of the chaise. Carol Lockwood was well-preserved for her age, but if she kept going on the way she was with the drink and constant worrying Katerina had no doubt the wear would begin to show soon.

Morning light ebbed like cold water in the lounge, the chilly blues of the chaise and the china normally so bright in summer, seemed subdued in this mournful weather. It was too early to be properly going about visiting friends but Carol Lockwood's invitation had ink etched so deeply into the paper that her desperation was hard for Katerina to ignore.

Katerina had thus roused herself early, sighed again at the familiar handwriting and folded herself into a tram for the Lockwood estate . Being kind to the powerful had its pay-offs, but to maintain her standing after Katerina had crawled properly onto their shoulders she still had to tolerate how ridicuolous and boring they were.

The older woman looked at her fondly, almost like a mother, there was a time Carol thought she could barter her son off to her. Katerina smiled, smug at the memory. "What does your son think of her?"

"I haven't a clue, it's all so…sudden. Tyler has always been impetuous and flighty, but _marriag_e?…and so quickly! _That_ I did not expect of him. All I understood was that he would be going hunting in the country, but by and by, four months later he returns to me, says 'I'm only staying in Peters for a little while, there's a girl I want to make my wife and I must go back to her' – it was all so sudden."

"Perhaps," Katerina teased. "He fell in love with her."

"Love!" Carol scoffed, sitting up straighter as if the very mention of the word had woken her to action, looking all the while like a governess ready to admonish a child for their willfulness. Silliness must be ridiculed, after all. "Tyler is a boy, he knows nothing about such matters. He's gotten her with child, was the first fear, was the reasoning that seemed most sound to justify such a union – seeing her yesterday, as lithe as a willow! And if not, then she's bewitched him, I thought. I was certain of it, you know these country folk…closer to the devil's magic, I wouldn't have put it past her, but then…I saw her and she's pretty, polite and so dutiful it's laughable. A good Christian girl resolved to be utterly unremarkable. It worries me, she is not meek, but I see in her a naivety that must be murdered quickly. Oh, Katerina, she…she looks at him with such…faith!"

Carol's face was fraught with worry, and Katerina was unnerved. The girl sounded like the perfect wife, but she could see how that grieved this new mother-in-law, and she could see what Carol would expect of her now. An educator.

Katerina breathed in deep and stilling, her spine straightened, her posture undoubtedly steel. This was the woman she was meant to be, cool and unflappable.

She smiled, a little teasing, like she was aware she was speaking her line in a play. The thought amused her. "Is Tyler not worthy of her faith?"

"I know my son. I know his character. He left Peters in such a state, left during a difficult time…I only fear."

"Are you worried for him?"

"Nothing can be done about her, he's very proud of what he's accomplished in marrying her. It's a step up the ladder to greatness – he's _establishing_ himself."

"Marriage does leave a man's arms free to climb the ladder, yes. But I know that your son does not have the selfishness, nor the cleverness to think of people so crudely as a means to an end. If he wanted to establish himself he could have married any girl in the city."

"It would have been easier had he done so! City people are all alike, they would have understood each other, understood how everything works."

"Why didn't you protest the match?"

Carol threw her a weary look, it was obvious. "Of course I did, Katerina! But she's from noble stock, and he would not be diverted from it. He said it needed to be her, he would have no other."

"Then Carol, my friend – can't you see that he loves her?"

"I know my son, Katerina, and he understands love as much as he understands the birthing bed."

"I see," Katerina murmured, she lowered her eyes meekly to her little cup and saucer. She'd practiced such performances excellently over the years. The other woman seemed to lean out precariously towards her, desperately, as if she hoped someone might catch her. "I do so love making new friends."

Katerina looked back up at her, feeling a satisfied thrill at the grateful awe on the other woman's face. They'd both known exactly what Carol wanted from her, but it was always safest to let the woman think it was her idea, that it was her triumph, her bargain purchase. "Oh, Katerina, you are an angel!"

She ducked her head to hide her wicked smile.

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_ Summertime made promises it knew it couldn't keep.  
>The fairytale was climbing up mountain far too steep, colouring the pictures<br>with your loyal hand. Now I am craving heartbreak, while you're making your demands.  
>Oh, he was young, in the frost, no regard for the cost, of saying his feelings.<br>In the moment they were felt, and if he was calm like you, locked up inside of your loops,  
>then he'd know for well that all he had to say was -<br>All he had to say was goodbye._

_._

_._

_.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>end note<strong>: I know it might not seem like it (anyone I've pissed off) but I have a very specific plot plan I swear.

Did I do okay?


	6. Unattainable, Little Joy

**disclaimer:** i'm all out of sassy ways to say that i don't own russia or the vampire diaries.  
><strong>dedication:<strong> to everyone who reviewed. you all give me so many ideas and so much motivation in the info you left, i even had some very interesting conversations with a lot of you. and it's so wonderful that you're as excited about an update as i am about you reading it. i do my best, and it's always lovely to know that you guys sit here waiting so faithfully and so patiently for an update. you're all very perfect, thank you for the feedback.  
><strong>warning:<strong> nothing much, you know i'm a classy lady.  
><strong>notes: <strong>reviews are to be fawned and wept over.  
><strong>even moar notes:<strong> there's a lot of research that goes into this, if you guys see anything iffy or anything that sounds historically inaccurate, plz halla so i might fix it. on that note i'm a bit vain when it comes to my men, so even if this is like the 18th century there will be no men wearing white wigs because i honestly cannot take those seriously as part of a man's appeal. i'm sorry, but i think a lot of you might agree that they do not want klaus in a poofy white wig trying to romance caroline, just trying to write for him with that picture in mind is impossible. so sorry, historically inaccurate, but NO WIGS. ahem. let us move on.

* * *

><p>—<p>

_._

_._

_._

_Only when the goal is unattainable do I start to feel like I'm losing myself,_  
><em>and this deep secret that hasn't come out yet is buried down deep with the rest.<em>  
><em>I can't coerce you into this one, jealousy lay all your spells to bed.<em>  
><em>I'll choose unloved instead<em>

_._

_._

_._

_—_

* * *

><p>Before being considered to attend a court ball a woman must have proved her worth in a prior introduction to the Empress.<p>

A lady of noble birth could only be considered friend of the court if they had passed this threshold, otherwise she would not be able to attend court affairs and she would be considered nothing of note, and would be unable to learn anything of import.

The Empress was that final stage before a woman could be recognized as of Petersburg. For Caroline Forbes she would get nowhere with the city's society if she did not make this journey, take this examination (for an examination - to test manners, fashion, and temperament - in all essence it was) and gain the favor of the Empress, or at least her acknowledgment. If successful enough to make a positive impression at the introductions Caroline would be able to secure the Empress's fondness and regard, which came with its own favors the least of which would be regarding speeding along her husband's climb up the ranks, and should she fail or offend to the Empress she would secure the whole of Petersburg's scorn, derision, and see Tyler pinned in the same station forever as mere second lieutenant.

It would also not do to pretend to move about in Petersburg society without having first received its ruler's blessing, it would have been as in bad taste, and unacceptable as moving about a party without knowing, or greeting the host.

Her husband was a military man, her father was a military man, it further doubled for her this sense of debt towards the Empress. This woman the men of Russia would so readily die for, this woman Caroline had so admired in portraits, had read so much about – a woman who had received the love of all Russia, who exchanged letters with Voltaire and was an intellectual who esteemed the arts, fashion as hardily as she was esteemed in politics. She was a woman unlike any other woman of their time, she was an _Empress._

Caroline felt more nervous about the impending visit to the palace than she had about her own wedding day, more fretful about what she wore (unassuming, but beautiful white, as all ladies at court must) than she had been when she'd been led into church only a few days ago. She had received all the noble education allowed to her in the far reaches of the countryside, had learnt the Polonaise, contredance, quadrille, round dance, the trapal, kamarinskaya, all the major ceremonial dances – Since childhood she had been learning everything of social importance, even in her father's estate on the edge of nowhere in preparation for one day being introduced to the Empress after she was wed to whichever noble husband suggested to her. Caroline had observed all norms of court etiquette, memorized how many steps she was supposed to make to approach the Empress properly, how to hold her head, her eyes, her hands. All the grace of movement, and the perfect polite diffidence and respect to relay in her manners in regards to this titan of a royal. _A queen like no other._

And now, under her mother-in-law she was to observe these norms again, and quickly relearn what she already knew just so Carol Lockwood would be better confident of her abilities.

"You have a lovely way of curtsying, all sweetness," Carol remarked after her daughter-in-law had dipped lightly in presentation, she then breezed past her and Caroline, startled, rose and followed as quick as she could. Lady Lockwood's raised shoes clicked smartly across the peach tile of her hallways and Caroline felt like a scurrying mouse behind her, "There is that triumph, all that's left is for us to be received by my tailor, we're to shop for your white wardrobe as well as some other pieces more suited to the fashion."

Caroline stopped behind Lady Lockwood, letting one of the family's maids help her with her coat and slipped her bear fur muff over her hands. Frowning by how brisque and quick Lady Lockwood was, as if constantly intent to leave her floundering in the dust – she was a very business-like woman under her laughter and drink, but Caroline frowned. "I thought what I had was already in fashion."

"Oh dear, don't you know that in Peters it is always changing?"

"My wardrobe is...inadequate?" Caroline asked, hoping that she had not embarrassed herself already. She was rushing as lady-like as she could after Lady Lockwood into the cold daylight, with frost crunching on the marble steps. "I prepared before I came, I saw a haberdashers before the wedding and he assured me that – "

"Yes, yes," Lady Lockwood waved at the air, then slapped her palm into the footman's so she could be lifted into the tram. Caroline refrained from interrupting the Lady, not when she looked thoughtful, like it was fretful trying to come up with the correct words to properly relay exactly what she was trying to mean. Caroline stopped a moment, halted by her own indignation, the cold prickled at her skin even as she colored. Of course, Lady Lockwood was not being spiteful, it was after all her loss too if Caroline failed them, she inhaled, taking in the frozen air, it was sharp enough to clear her head and make her more sensible. It was easier to think reasonably when all she could smell was frost, clean and cold.

Caroline had herself composed by the time Lady Lockwood was seated. She let herself be assisted into the tram and pulled her skirts away from the door so it could be shut. Lady Lockwood spoke again, her face rosy and her eyes seemed a warm brown in the more subdued quiet of the tram, now that the wind wasn't whipping about their ears, but she found her words. "Your clothes are correct, they follow the fashions but…they are so modest, and so…unassuming!"

"My lady, I would not want to seem like I assume anything. They're tasteful."

"Well, they are – tasteful. Tasteful like furniture can be tasteful, _informed_ by taste." Carol lay her head back, with a delicate huff, slipping her the fur-lined collar of her coat more levelly around her neck, and then she settled herself, prim and regal. "But they lack flair, they need more color – more daring."

"But I thought it is the custom to wear meek white when I meet the Empress and at all court balls?"

"You're to wear meek white when you meet the Empress, this once, it's a special introduction, is it not? But you cannot be meek in other affairs. You're not going to hold the interest of your husband, or your friends long if you are intent on making yourself as unobtrusive as possible. Be a little more risqué with the cut of your dresses, lower, more…flattering. Do not hide your prettiness away because you are afraid of 'assuming' or offending. St. Petersburg is a parade of finery, and you must adjust your plumage to it if you've any hope of being noted."

"You're…" Caroline open her mouth, shut it. Began diplomatically again, even though she had no care to be noted in such an exaggerated fashion (for she was no prancing doll meant to snatch attention and hold it selfishly with her own vanity) but it was important that she shine in her own right. Carol Lockwood had taken little time in pointing out to her that she was not merely wed to a soldier, but a noted member of society, as his wife she was an extension of his worth. What she did must not only always reflect his standing but _further_ it. It was important that she be a success. She may not have liked the flippant way her mother-in-law was putting it, but she was correct. "I admit when you say it, it _seem_s sensible –"

"It _is_ sensible. You're married, newly-wed, you're no longer expected to pretend to be a virginal nun. You are a woman, no longer a girl, and you must dress accordingly, otherwise you will never be seen as an equal and never be taken seriously, and how awful would that be?" The Duchess Lockwood caught Caroline's eye, very emphatic and very firm in their conviction. She motioned up with her hand, perfecting her refined posture with a little exaggeration, directing from the pit of her abdomen to the core of her chest in one cool motion. It remidned Caroline of a regal bird of the exotic drawing itself up regal, colorful plumage splayed out, neck long, gaze impenetrable. "You," Lady Lockwood was matter-of-fact, "Are a creature of grace, and desire – none of this sensible puritan cut, you have married a noble man, and you needs must l_ook the part!"_

Which of course implied that Caroline to some extent did not, which would have been offensive in and of itself if it did not come from a place of constructive criticism, it was not a point of making conflict, but a point of deciding a change in both physical aspect and in her own outlook.

White? Wasn't she now too old to pretend to be such a child and too young to wear such modest tones? She was not widowed, had not discarded by society or abandoned by her beauty or youth. It would be wasteful and poorly calculated for of her to continue dressing and behaving so restrained and expect to be treated, as Carol Lockwood had pointed out, like an equal. She was no longer a girl, but a woman. A true lady. It was a point of pride, it was not only for her husband that she must pass under the Empress's eyes gracefully, but for her own family name.

"Come on," Carol Lockwood surprised her utterly by smiling impishly and leaning forward to playfully grasp her hand, as if they were sisters almost, rather than mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. The suddenness of this touch implied an eagerness to become closer, and it was shocking, solicited a small burst of astonished affection in Caroline's own chest. Nervous, hopeful. Lady Lockwood had very warm eyes and was more beautiful than a woman her age was expected to be, all prim and proper, and yes, cold (as indicated by their first meeting) sometimes, but she did seem (_dare Caroline hope?_) to be _trying_ at the very least to be as welcoming as she could be. Scraps though it might have been, Caroline was willing to take what little was offered in hopes of greater gains in future. She wanted to earn and _learn_ this woman's confidence, and as a daughter-in-law earn her approval and a weapon of her own. "It will be so much fun! How dreadfully boring would it be to let you wither at home and be so dull at parties? It is my duty to make you take this city by storm. You are a good deal too attractive to be so careful and so tentative!"

_Careful_ seemed to describe weakness, hesitation, a _failing_ in her character, but Caroline did not consider herself tentative or any of those things. She was careful. Someone as meticulous with everything as she was needed to be, not only in matters of manner, or composure, but in all affairs. Everything Caroline did was thought-out extensively for she was a perfectionist, and though her precise expectations had sometimes grated on her peers back home, she could always be counted on to arrange everything to perfection.

She had taken this same strategy when it came to her clothes, knowing that she was meant to meet a society so different of her own, and knowing she needed to gain the approval of those around her she had endeavored to make herself as unassuming as possible, not small per se, but lesser, less...intimidating. Not to say she made herself cowed, but she did endeavor not to make herself a point of conflict. The less loud she made herself the more friends she would make, she had thought, for that would indicate a sweetness of manner. Lady Lockwood would not appreciate a bull-headed foreigner she could not mold, it was important that Caroline make herself as agreeable as possible. And her 'unassuming' wardrobe had been part of that, hadn't it? Knowing now, however, that society would expect more than that from her forced her to revise her strategy – she would wear their colors, dance their dances. Though she did so like the clothes she had brought with her…she would change them. No more light summer colors, or light cotton pinafores, she would have to be trussed up in bold fabrics like an over-embroidered cushion. It was necessary, lamentable, but necessary.

However, she would change as far as she could allow and still be true to herself, she did not care how low the cut Carol Lockwood might want her to wear her dresses if Caroline herself was not comfortable with them. She would dress like a fine lady, colorful, simple, regal. She was no painted whore – she was, after all, a Forbes. Not a harlot who'd picked up her skirts in a barn at the first fancy uniform to cross the estate.

"I will make adjustments to the clothes I've already brought with me," She acceded, gracefully making a little concessions while still maintaining her pride. "And I will take some advice in the new wardrobe we'll be planning for today."

Carol Lockwood noted the emphasis, and she shook her daughter-in-law's hand in hers before she sat back with a knowing smile. "You're proud, but diplomatic, Caroline. Those are important qualities, I can see how you might manage him, unruly as he is."

Caroline's face felt hot, with embarrassment, but also with pleasure. She only nodded once and turned to the window, pressing her fingers against the freezing glass, hiding just how much Lady Lockwood's approval meant to her, it was a colossal feat to keep the heat from her face as memories sprung uninvited in her mind thinking of another pair of hands, much larger and much warmer.

* * *

><p>He stood under the overhang of a french cafe's roof, the corner of the park, watching the door of the house opposite like a fool. Damon's breaths hissed into the air in front of him and he stomped his boots, dislodging the frost collecting around his soles - he hated the weather, this perpetual teetering between freezing autumn, with rain that fell wet and streets that would churn in icy sludge. It had yet to snow, all there was was freezing wet and ice that would not thaw.<p>

He felt ridiculous, clutching the brim of his hat down from the women who passed him, bitterness making the action forceful. A jealous paramour, one of those subjects of ridicule, cutting a figure to be mocked in literature. They giggled at him though, young girls with nothing but air behind their eyes. Now those were the little pastries he should be entertaining, using and discarding as he always had, but in all his life this was the first of times he found that he could not be tempted by them. Damon Salvatore had gone ill, and it was a sickness that cripple him senseless, a mutation of desire and the foolishness of that desire driving him further to desire that which he could not be allowed to possess. Damon Salvatore had fallen disastrously in love with a woman who thought little of his abilities outside of how successfully he could pleasure her.

Heat flushed his face, furious he stood in the cold. Barely contained by the gale that would occasionally whip about him, he felt the same useless anger of his youth, and the irony was not lost on him, would she be another one of his failures? She had made it very clear that he could not touch her further than her skin, and her heart was as shut from him as it was shut from everyone else, he had been put in his place by her, a place forever in the darkness only to come forward should she haughtily call for him. And willingly, furiously, he would come, because it was one thing to loath the darkness of being ignored by her, and one thing to loathe how easily he could be summoned, and how quickly he would arrive, and how nothing he did could punish her. He loved her madly, he was a fool.

Damon Salvatore hated Katerina as much as he loved her, and he could not hurt her, even if he knew how. He had tried flirting with other women, taking them to bed, but she would only observe him later and smirk, toss her haughty little head and the full extent of her amusement would be in her eyes as loud as if she had shaken the whole room with her derisive laughter. Other times she only raised a brow, as if to ask him what he was hoping to achieve, and other times she did not notice him for weeks on end, because she could not be bothered to remember him or remember his silly attempts at grabbing her attention.

He tugged at the fingers of his hand, then made a fist, closing and opening constantly as if to ward off the cold, getting his blood going, heated as it was in his cold body. He had stood hear for any hour waiting for Katerina, the man selling cheroots watched him, sat on a little box behind his stall, when Damon cast a look at him the pesky little Russian's brows rose, wiggled, knowingly - as if he knew exactly what this man was doing and had seen many of his like before, waiting foolishly before a woman's house, passionate cowards, waiting for the husband to leave the house, cautious before they could safely cuckold them.

The old man turned away with a scoff, and exchanged money with a customer.

A muscle in Damon's jaw tensed, Katerina had not returned in hours since her flight from here so early in the morning. Yesterday she had hurled his clothes at his back and screamed him out of her rooms, it was as wild as he had ever seen her, face red and twisting with the sort of visceral emotion that no man in the world could inspire from her, so full of feeling and rage and fear.

No man in the world, of course, except her husband.

The clatter of hooves on slick brick made Damon duck his head deeper behind his collar, he turned his body towards the little stall, bringing the brim of his hat lower. He kept the house in his peripheral, and felt the cold seer him to the bone, ice in the very pits of his stomach when he saw the great bay horse rear at Katerina's door.

Elijah Mikkelsen cut a figure that would forever separate him for a mediocre crowd, his proud height, his dignified stature. He dismounted from his horse with a gracefulness that was infuriating, nothing it seemed, could ever make Elijah Mikkelsen anything other than perfectly poised, and perfectly elegant, and perfectly composed in everything he did. That most noble of noble men.

Any man who stood next to him would feel a ruffian, and a man who dared think himself victor over Elijah in any manner or form, would be a fool.

The man now stood speaking to his horse, and speaking with the servant that came out to take the horse into the stables. Damon observed him from the corner of his eye, saw Elijah speaking unhurriedly, talking kindly from his great height to the filthy peasant - his brown hair perfectly groomed, his blue uniform spotless, and like Elijah without a wrinkle.

And then Elijah turned, the reigns having passed to the servants hands and looked directly across to him, exactly where the cafe was and where Damon, the fool, had stood.

Damon stiffened abruptly, the very idea of being spotted was like the slash of a sword against his spine. His face reddened, ice shot through his body, and he cursed everything that had brought him here, and cursed everything that had deigned to make this cool Russian nobleman an obstacle to his own happiness once again.

Elijah, though, made no move to cross the road, and Damon did not dare to look at his face to confirm it, for Elijah proceeded within the house. Perhaps he had not seen him?

Humiliation coursed through him, he was sure that Elijah could spot a man miles away. He had been seen, Damon was too certain of his own bad luck to doubt that.

Damon had only met the man once and been left with chills ever since, he curled his coat around him, the memory still daunted him. Katerina's husband was a mild manner man, polite and precisely aware of everything under that mute unoffended facade, his eyes were always that cool unflappable grey, the first they met those eyes were fixed on him, maybe with the hint of a smile so cold and so quiet it could not be pinned, but those eyes had given Damon the impression that Elijah knew exactly his relationship with his wife.

Elijah expressed no anger, only patient amusement. For it seemed that if Katerina was a hurricane then Elijah was the eye of it, and Damon's part in their opera was nothing but mere, an inconsequential, a rung in their story, an prop rather than the heart of any conflict.

It was unnerving. All men regarded Damon with some form of venom, jealousy, bitterness, but Elijah only observed Damon like he was as consequential as last years newspaper.

Elijah in his military regalia, tumbler in hand, following the conversation and Damon blustering like a fool because this man was not at all threatened by his wife's lover. And Katerina following Elijah's every movement with her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat, and her lips pressed sharply together, Damon thought that she maybe feared him, but Katerina was always so fearless wasn't she?

And cruel too, cruel as Damon had been when he was young and just starting to pluck at every woman who smiled at him.

"Sir!"

He looked up, anger still fresh in his eyes. The shrill cry came from a boy with rags twisted around his boots, one of the urchins, young with skin so white it seemed there was not enough blood in his body. Hunger did that to children, but it was hunger, Damon knew, that made one hone their wits more sharply. However, this was an interruption, to be addressed by one so low in broad daylight, and his pride still stung from seeing Elijah Mikkelsen arrive in all his glory to wait for his wife, a woman who did not even belong to Damon.

"What is it, boy?" Damon seethed.

"Are you Lord Salvatore, the Whore of St. Petersburg?"

Damon stilled, staring, mouth hanging in shock, but indignation reared its head, rising so sharply in him he felt ready to strike the boy. "Shall I cut out your impertinent tongue, brat?"

"It is this letter, sir," The boy said, his face screwed up with affront, which seemed to trump whatever fear he might have had it, "the sir told me to address you so to confirm it."

Indeed, there was a letter clutched between his fingers, a white envelope whose pristine skin seemed marred by the dirty prints the boy had left when Damon scornfully took it from his outstretched hand. It lacked a wax seal or any token that might identify its writer, but Damon doubted, if the boy's style of address was any indication, that this was a letter from anyone of his many admirers.

He tore the letter open with jerking, agitated motions and would have begun to read it except that the boy was standing there by him patiently.

Damon nearly snarled, dug in his coat for petty change and flung it at the boy's head, but the little mud scrubber caught the coin with all the alacrity of an acrobat. He spat at Damon's feet and ducked into the street before Damon could snatch him by his shoulders and clobber him truly. The only foreigners Russia enjoyed having were the French, and Damon was far from French and far from Russian, and it seemed that everyone in St. Petersburg constantly remind him of this failing.

He glared at the alleyway the boy had disappeared to, ignored the stall owner's knowing looks once more and returned to his letter and felt all the blood drain from his face.

_Be so kind, dear Salvatore, to meet us on the banks of the Balaton, behind that cafe you always stand on the corner of so forlornly._

_Find a second as soon as you must, for I'm afraid duels often require one of those. You are a pitiful scoundrel and I would slit your throat as you sleep but I am told that no matter how much you deserve a dog's death, that it would be in bad taste. Bad taste! Anyway, you will be expected at the meeting place tomorrow night with your second, giving you the opportunity to die like a man._

_Otherwise, I would advise you to spend your nights with an eye open._

_A.S_

* * *

><p>"Won't your wife miss you?"<p>

Tyler Lockwood shook his head, his smile was ridiculously wide, his eyelids fluttering fighting off sleep. Seultzman's home was awash in that dank lighting so common before winter struck, the daylight broke in pieces over them, blue scatters of it across the table and the floor. Niklaus Mikkelsen observed his second lieutenant, and hated his drunken stupor of happiness, how utterly relaxed that young man looked sprawled back in his chair. A bottle of murky alcohol sat on the table between them, the room cluttered in empty glasses and overturned chairs, there was a man dead asleep on beneath the curtains.

Kaus hated how lively and conversational Tyler was, for the boy was likable. Klaus had liked Tyler the moment they had met, had found in the boy the promise of excellence, had seen the ambition, and sometimes, in moments like these, it could fool Klaus - he who was meant to know better, after everything - as well as it had done all those years ago.

Tyler was too drunk it seemed, to open his eyes and notice the light reproach as what it was, amusement warped with venom.

It was half past ten, the party had ended in the small hours of the morning, everyone had sprawled themselves around the house exhausted, too drunk to walk back to their beds and their wives at home. The house was silent in the aftermath of that wild party, that chaotic music of the soldier singers, now it was only Klaus and this traitorous youngling in the distilled silence of this place, where the cold ebbed around them where someone had negligently left the window behind them open.

Alcohol that had raged so pleasantly in him the night before had left nothing but a cold buzz, and would no doubt soon build into a head ache from hell behind his eyes, but in the cold morning that still felt like colder dawn, Klaus sat, in this strange floating room, in a ludicrous, liquid sense of clarity, swimming in him. It was too quiet a time for him to think of his more violent emotions, and it was sobering, and without his anchor of rage and bitterness he was left floating a little, ungrounded. He remembered he disliked Tyler, he remembered it as easily as he remembered to breath, but could not seem to find the force to energize that feeling, nor the force to want to. The room was too cold, and he was still too drunk.

"I've sent her a letter," Tyler said, eyes closed, mouth slack and tired. His voice reminded Klaus that the boy was speaking. "not to expect me until late."

"Did your letter mention any of the night's gypsys?" Klaus taunted, darker.

"None of whom I touched, if you remember, Captain," Tyler squinted at him, and laughed. He had, after all, kept his hands to himself. "But no sir, my note expressed only love and admiration, I begged her forgiveness and understanding."

The words made him angry, all those times Tyler should have kept his hands to himself and did not listen, what had changed him? Klaus's wrath, or this woman? If Tyler had kept his hands to himself earlier then perhaps Klaus wouldn't have become angry with him, and his sister wouldn't look such a fool. Did Tyler think that this show of fidelity would last, and even more ridiculous, that it would erase his previous trespasses?

Klaus laughed, it rumbled deep in his throat, and burst behind his chest, Tyler blinked blearily at him, the drink had rendered him far from lucid. His face twisted as he observed his Captain rise only a little unsteadily to his feet, "Captain?"

"I've errands," Klaus explained, brusque. He run a hand through his air and tugged at the front of his shirt in an effort to look more presentable, "Have you seen Salvatore?"

Tyler yawned loudly and Klaus raised a hand to stop him from rising, Tyler settled back in his chair gratefully. He didn't think he could execute a salute when he was this inebriated. "I saw him and Yvgeny duck into the cupboard underneath the stairs."

Ah, that man was a deviant. "Very well," Klaus nodded, and made to leave.

"Captain?"

He rolled his eyes, and turned back to Tyler slouched in his chair. He looked smaller, like he had when he came into Seultzman's study the night before, unsure, waiting for something he could not dare ask for.

"I hope that..." He grimaced, "I only wish that things might be as they were...before."

The hand tucked behind his back clenched, and Klaus's expression was controlled, despite the gale twisting within him. He wanted to crush the boy, he wanted to crush him and that stir of sentiment Tyler so skillfully made rise in everyone, even in hearts as closed off as Klaus's own. Forgiveness could not be had, and Klaus could tolerate the boy just barely, after everything. But it was satisfying to have the little fool squirm, and Klaus wanted nothing more than to destroy him or see him gone, but the regiment would suffer for it, and vengeance was sweet and slow in the reaping. He saw Tyler's hopeful face, underneath all his pretend at contrition, and Klaus knew exactly how to control him, to dangle that prospect of forgiveness in front of the boy until the moment Klaus could exact upon him his full wrath, when the time was ready, when the boy would least expect it.

He bit the inside of his cheek, as if pride fought with him as he considered and instead remarked. "I make no promises."

Tyler's face flooded with that hope and Klaus turned away shortly, leaving before he could tolerate another of the boy's insipid words. The calmness of before was already ebbing away from him like the tide returning offshore, slowly and deeply, if he spent even another moment in that room he'd be forced to finally shoot the boy. Leaving was only prudent.

It was, after all, too late into the year to be making widows.

* * *

><p><em>—<em>

_._

_._

_._

_If only songs were sung to guide the doubtful ones beyond the rough,_  
><em>where not as much is good enough. Oh, if you find yourself among the lonely ones,<em>  
><em>I'll be waiting here with open arms.<em>  
><em>I can't coerce you into this one, jealousy lay all your spells to bed.<em>  
><em>I'll choose unloved instead<em>

_._

_._

_._

_—_

* * *

><p><strong>end notes: <strong>and that was little joy with 'unattainable', maybe you'll take a listen! goodnight, you darlings.


End file.
